While Michael Sleeps
by Jedi Skysinger
Summary: Series of one shots from Fiona POV - reflections on her changing relationship with Michael - usually while he's unconscious.
1. Author's Note

I do not own Burn Notice, I only wish that I did. Thanks to Matt Nix for some awesome characters to play with!

This series was inspired by the Pilot. and Michael's stay in the hospital. What was Fiona thinking before she kicked Michael awake? My passion in writing is to get into the character's heads, so there's often a lot thinking, but not always a lot of dialogue. Varies by chapter. Each chapter is named for the episode in which it occurs and/or the location it takes place.

Apologies for only having the A/N up. This story was actually started before its companion story (While Fiona Sleeps), but in working on it, I realized I hadn't worked out some key details of Fiona's backstory, so I removed the second chapter for reworking. Which means Michael got his turn to speak first. But fear not, as we all know, Fiona will get her say.


	2. PilotPrologue

I don't own _Burn Notice_, but a girl can dream…. Technically not Fiona POV, but it sets up the next chapter and I had to write it after re-watching Dead to Rights

"He may be more difficult to control than you think."

The meeting had already started when he sauntered into the room. He flashed a huge smile at his two superiors, his brilliant white teeth contrasting with his coffee colored skin. The files in his hands were thick reams of paper pressed between stiff cardboard.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen. I had some things to attend to," Vaughn apologized as he took his seat at the highly polished table, setting the files upon it. The older man, a shock of white hair and a distinguished air, motioned for him to continue.

With a satisfied nod, he pushed one of the thick files towards Management. "Simon's file."

"And our guest is?"

"Less than satisfied with his current accommodations." Vaughn chuckled, his laughter taking on a nasty edge.

"Has Mr. Cowan completed his task? Is Westen-"

"Mr. Westen is in Nigeria," the ebony man replied. "I would be surprised if he makes it out before it happens."

Management shook his head slightly and turned to the other man at the table. "Are you sure we shouldn't have waited until he was stateside?"

He draw a deep breath before answering, looking between his pale partner and his dark second in command. "The fear from being outed, the isolation of being alone in the field, along with the shock will keep him off balance until we have everything in place. We've gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure that we're holding all the cards. I want Mr. Westen to have a proper homecoming in Miami, surrounded by the friends and family he's worked so hard to avoid."

"What if he doesn't make it out alive?"

"Then, my old friend, we won't have to debate whether or not we should have recruited him anymore. Vaughn," he said turning to him, "make sure the plane waits at the airport for him. We wouldn't wait him to miss his flight. Have you located Miss Glenanne yet?"

"New York."

A phone in the center of table rang. Management picked it up and listened thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "Instruct the pilot to divert the flight to Miami. Have an ambulance waiting to meet them at the airport. Make sure he's stable," the older man paused, "and sedated." He put the receiver back in its cradle. "He's going to need serious medical attention," he informed them.

"All the better," his partner smiled. "Have Cowan tend to Mr. Axe's retirement issues," he ordered, "and see to it that Miss Glenanne gets the news of Mr. Westen's location after she hears about her possible reunion with Mr. O'Neil."

"My pleasure," Vaughn responded. He rose quickly and left the room, the files still on the conference table.

"Now," Anson said, turning back toward Management as he reached for the files,"let's talk about Mr. Strickler."


	3. Mind Games

**A/N - I was going to do these in chronological order, but these stories tend to insist on being told on their own schedule. I will repost them in chronological order as they are written. This takes place during ****Mind Games**** after Michael's nightmare but before their meeting with Sam two weeks later. **

**Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews and for the encouragement. It's really appreciated. A shout out to Matt Nix for letting us borrow his characters and to U2 for being an awesome Irish band. I'm sure you can guess which song was on the playlist.**

Fiona was worried.

"I'm here," she whispered. "It's okay, I'm here."

She was lying on her side, molded to the curve of his back, her face pressed against his, her slender arm wrapped around his muscular one, her free hand running gently through his hair. Although he was covered in a sheen and radiating body heat in the midst of Miami, she felt cold.

Mrs. Glenanne's oldest daughter had made a vow to herself that she wasn't ever going to worry again after that black night the British soldiers had broken into their house and taken half the family away for questioning. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Sean and Colin, while her mother held a screaming Claire in her arms, Fiona had determined then and there she would refuse to worry about tomorrow or any other damned thing else.

She would prepare to the best of her capabilities and then she would meet whatever it was directly, guns blazing. If it required a well timed lie to get the job done in close quarters, well then fine, but her overwhelming preference was for a percussive resolution to the problem. Later, she had expanded her repertoire of possible solutions to include shotguns, sniper rifles and C-4. Fiona would tackle whatever chaos that life dared to bring to her doorstep head-on and she was going to have fun doing it.

But she was worried now and she hated it.

Michael had awoken for the second time in nearly a week, panting and pointing his 9 mm at the door. She had been able to get it away from him without a tussle this time as well. Most nights he'd just startle awake and then either apologize for waking her or apologize for not letting her sleep, should he catch her keeping watch over him. This night, Fiona had held him, covering him with soft kisses, gentle caresses and whispered words of comfort until he'd finally given in to exhaustion. At least he had let her console him. She couldn't put her finger on what had set him off this time. They had spent an uneventful, albeit short, afternoon shopping with his mother and his nephew until Charlie had made his displeasure with the entire outing most evident. Michael hadn't accosted anyone at the mall, but he had clearly been uncomfortable in the crowd.

When Fiona was sure he was in fact asleep, she had slipped out of the bed. Stalking around the loft in search of something suitable to wear in the pre-dawn hours that were still more darkness than light, she was trying to be quiet, but the urge to blow something up or hit something or somebody was starting to overwhelm her. She had instead forced herself to head for the loo. A quick sponge bath and one of Michael's undershirts later, she headed back toward the kitchen area at the opposite end of the loft.

She had paused on the way there, stopping at the foot of the bed and gazing down at him. He looked so tired, his handsome features tense even in sleep. She had vowed she'd never worry, but damned if he wasn't making her break that vow. One of many of her life percepts she'd violated since she'd fallen in love with Michael McBride and found out one fine day that she had actually been sleeping with someone named Michael Westen. Thinking about that made her want to just climb back into bed and kiss him all over again or kick him all over, but she couldn't bring herself to do either. She was too keyed up to stop short of completion of either course of action and neither one was going let Michael get any more sleep. He'd had little enough as it was.

And lately, she hadn't had much more herself.

Fi felt a smile tugging at her lips, despite her irritation. When Michael hadn't been keeping her awake by thrashing around on the bed, desperately trying to find some peace in his dreams, they had been thrashing around together on the bed, on the upstairs couch, in the shower, and once on the work bench, desperately trying to find some release in each other's arms, in each other's bodies. It hadn't been like this in the beginning though.

_It's a new job, Fi, but it's not a new life. I like my life and I want to live it with you. Here. That's what I was trying to say. I want you to move in. What do you think?_

As he'd enveloped her in his strong arms and given her one of the sweetest kisses she'd ever known, she thought she was going to cry, another thing she'd sworn not to do. MIss Glenanne was definitely passionate and she certainly didn't cut herself off from her feelings like Michael did, but crying... well, salt water stinging the eyes was acceptable, a full flood of tears were not. But her eyes had been wide and watery from happiness. Fiona couldn't believe what she was hearing when only moments before she'd thought it was goodbye. Again.

_I want to talk to you, Fi. I haven't been able to sleep well lately and I've had alot of things on my mind. But I know we're going through some big changes, you and I, and I don't want to pile anything else on it-_

_You don't have to explain, Michael. I'm a big girl. You have an exciting new life. I won't hold you back._

_You don't hold me back. That job I was doing for the CIA... it wouldn't have succeeded without you. I need you, Fi. _

Not 'I need a favor' or 'I need some help' or "I need tactical support,' but 'I need _you_.' It wasn't 'I love you,' but coming from Michael, it had left her speechless. He had fumbled around a bit at first, with the lumber and the snow globes analogy. Fiona smiled wider now; he was so bad at that. She regarded her lover with tenderness as he sprawled across both sides of bed, finally looking like some semblance of calm had come over him, his mouth falling open slightly, his beautiful face going slack.

What he had lacked in verbal eloquence in his invitation, he had more than made up for in pleasing her physically. Michael had made love to her all night. He had done things to her, for her, that he hadn't done in years. The pace had been leisurely, like they had all the time in the world. Every touch, every kiss, every embrace, every position started slowly, then built in intensity until she thought she was going to explode herself, a fitting way to go, and then she would and then he would and then he'd start it all over again.

Her favorite covert operative had turned every bit of that obsessiveness of his upon her and for once the soddin' phone hadn't rung. Fiona had been beyond satisfied and utterly exhausted. She had finally grumbled affectionately at him to go eat some yogurt so his stomach wouldn't keep her up all night rumbling. If only she'd known then what was going to be keeping her up all night. At the time, it seemed almost as though he thought she'd disappear like one of the fey if he let go of her. Now, Fiona realized, he was probably more worried about going to sleep.

And that fast, the glow of her reminiscing evaporated and worry dared to rear its ugly head again as her eyes landed on the files sitting on the floor next to his side of the bed. She fought off the urge to go have a bonfire out of the balcony with those god forsaken files. She assuaged herself momentarily with the knowledge that Carla, at least, hadn't escaped her sniper scope. Fi spun on her heel and strode away from the bed towards the kitchen, determined to replace that now departed feeling with the soothing fire of some Irish whiskey or the warm brace of some Irish tea.

When she reached under the counter into her liquor cabinet, conveniently separated into those bottles suitable for throwing one back and those bottles suitable for throwing at one's enemies, albeit with a lighted rag stuffed in the neck, she came up empty at the spot where her Old Bushmills Special Old Liqueur Whiskey was supposed to be.

"Sam." She growled his name like a curse and immediately regretted it; for one, because she recalled that she had offered it to him in celebration of their inclusion in the mission, and two, because Michael had groaned aloud in response, shifting uncomfortably once again.

"Fine," she said sullenly, but more quietly to herself. "It's almost morning, anyway." The Irish woman poured the water into the kettle, glancing back over her shoulder to ensure she wasn't making too much noise, then set it on the stove, snapping the burner on in one deft movement of her wrist. She looked over her shoulder again. The light was just beginning to overtake the darkness and she somehow thought she might feel better once the sun was up.

She'd begun to really love the sun and blue skies of South Florida, though it rained here often enough to keep her from being too homesick. It looked like it was going to be a cloudy morning. She looked over at the table, remembering when she'd told him once that he needed her. Seemed like a lifetime ago she had sat there cleaning guns and debating whether or not she was coming with him to confront Phillip Cowan. For someone so smart, Michael could be so unbelievably dense sometimes. Fiona wondered what had made him decide after all this time to ask her to move in when her conversation with Maddy about her son's other fixation drifted through her mind.

_There are lots of things in Michael's past he's holding onto, honey. That's just how he is, but I told him that maybe it's time to stare the past down and just deal with it. You know what I mean, Fiona? Like I told him, it happened, For better or for worse, It made us who we are. Really, all we can do now is look towards the future._

"Look towards the future," she sighed quietly. That's what she thought they had been doing. She should have known it wasn't going to be that easy. Fiona sat at the counter-top, the staccato drumming of her fingernails on her thigh most irritating, but far quieter than hitting the wooden surface would have been. She watched him, curling up on his side as if protecting his core; then he became motionless again, except for the somewhat shallow rise and fall of his chest.

_"My point is, we've fought the people that burned you for a long time, Michael. Now they're on the run, the CIA hunting the bastards down, and we're just out!"_

_"I wish I could tell you, Fi. I really do."_

Seemed like the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

_"When you got burned, it wasn't just you. These last four years have been hard on all of us."_

_"I know and I'm really sorry about that, but we're so close to wrapping this up and I can move on."_

_"I hope you find what you're looking for, Michael. I really do. Then we can all move on."_

But Michael still hadn't found what he was looking for. He began to grind his teeth, the sound making her clench hers. Fiona almost went over to the bed to check on him, but decided the tea was nearly done. She pushed the worry aside with a fierce determination and focused on how enormously pleased she had been when the CIA's newest asset had insisted on bringing her and Sam along on the final leg of the operation. She had been almost humming with contentment. Until the first plane change in Istanbul, that is. Still, they were together and they were going to finish it together. Or so she'd thought.

_"You can get settled in. Mike and I are going to go over the details."_

_"No, wait, we don't need to go over the details, too?"_

_"Fiona, can you give us a minute?"_

As the kettle slowly built up steam and began to whistle, Fiona found her aggravation rising as surely and swiftly as the water temperature. She snatched it off the stove, extinguishing the burner with an audible snap that caused Michael to stir, but not awaken.

It made her angry because it reminded her of being on the outside every time Michael had walked away to pursue the men who'd ruined his life, leaving her, Sam and Maddy behind, to wait and to watch and go on the best they could until he returned. She'd been there before, of course. Ever since she'd woken up on that cold Dublin morning and found he was gone, not even a goodbye, she'd learned to accept that he'd have to fight his own battles until he was willing, or needy enough, to come back for her help. But at least he had come back, albeit unwillingly at first, and mercifully the absences lately had been in terms of days and months and not years.

Still, for all her irritation, Max had been alright as government-types went and he had been gracious enough to actually thank them after she and Sam had done what they do best, cover Michael's back regardless of who told them to do otherwise. Hell, Max had even gotten them a vacation in Costa Rica. Miss Glenanne decided that she might have to have a talk with Michael's new handler and see if he would agree with her that everyone who had burned Michael was either dead or in jail.

But there was something else going on with Michael beyond what had caused that kilometer long stare that said his mind was somewhere else during their celebration at Carlito's that day.

For some reason, her mind immediately seized upon how he'd been on their drive home from his mom's house. Michael had practically raced to the car when she'd come to pick him up from Nate's welcome home lunch to go shopping. She could hear his nephew demonstrating the apex of his lung capacity all the way out in the street. At first, Fiona had written it off as his preference for heavy artillery fire over the sound of a crying infant. She couldn't actually disagree with him there. Then, she began to wonder if it was because he was afraid she would connect their co-habitation with the potential result that Charlie represented.

_'Your nephew's rather opinionated; you think he gets that from his grandmother?"_

_"No, from his father. Nate cried like that from the day Mom brought him home the hospital. Colic. So she said. He never stopped. It made life... interesting..."._

That was the most she'd ever heard Michael volunteer about his familial past. At the time, she was pleased that he had opened up, even just the tiniest bit, to her about it. Most of what she knew she'd pieced together from what Maddy did say and what Sam didn't say about the topic. Michael'd had almost the same look on his face after their interrogation of Yakuza gangster, but it was worse somehow. It was only because she knew him so well that she caught the pain underlying that look and she knew he was as shaken as his mother by what had happened between them.

_"You look upset."_

_"I don't want to talk about it."_

Fiona'd known as soon as he'd dismissed the topic outright that it was bad. But he'd left her with other business to attend to and she was thrilled again that he was asking her to help him with his CIA work. Her life had been an emotional carnival ride long before she'd met Michael and she'd learned to roll with it, to find the fun in every moment and squeeze it out, but somehow the highs and the lows, the twists and the whips always seemed more extreme these last four years than her fourteen years in the IRA.

What hurt the most was she had really started to hope it was going to be different this time. Finally, they could both have what they wanted instead one at the expense of the other. It just felt like that hope was being crushed as mercilessly as she was squeezing the teabag, not even cognizant of the heat blistering her fingers.

She was worried and it was _really_ pissing her off.

Because it made her feel helpless. The battle that was raging was between _his_ ears. She couldn't shoot them or blow the bastards to kingdom fookin' come. If Michael chose to walk away from her help, that was his doing. But this time, he needed her help, needed _her_... he'd said so. He'd asked her to and she couldn't figure out how to help him. She felt like that little Irish girl, watching her Da and her older brothers being dragged into the street, not a damned thing she could do about it.

_"Sometimes you're exactly what he needs. And sometimes just he pushes you away."_

"You bastard," she swore under her breath, remembering the smug look on Larry's face. What she wouldn't give to put a block of C-4 in Mr. Sizemore's back pocket. "Well, Mr. Westen, you're not pushing me away this time."

She picked up her tea and walked slowly back toward the bed.

" Fi,.. don't... be here," came the desperate plea, little more than a ragged whisper. She froze in place.

"Michael?" she queried, not sure what she was asking.

"Fi, Fi" it was almost a sob. The sound was so small and soft, she wasn't sure if she had really heard it. She set the tea cup down and picked up his SIG Sauer P228 from where she had laid it. Fiona wasn't sure why she did it or what she was going to do with the weapon, but the cold heft of the metal in her hand made her feel better.

"Michael?" she asked again softly, coming around to the other side and kneeling at the bed side. Even in the dim light, she could see how tightly he was wound and that he was...

He was still asleep. Her mind locked for a moment. He _couldn't_ be talking in his sleep... could he?

Michael drew a shuddering breath and growled. He said something she couldn't quite make out. It sounded like "Why?" the question coming as a barely spoken accusation. That word could apply to so many things, so many situations. She saw his hand twitch toward his pillow and she connected some of his anxiety to the loss of his sidearm under it.

What she saw next hurt her almost as much as seeing Michael unconscious at Mt. Sinai, his body swathed in gauze and tubing His face was contorted with emotion. "You first," he said almost audibly. He was waking up. Fiona's mind suddenly lurched into gear. Some way, somehow, whoever was tormenting him was going to answer to her. She was going to end this right now.

She leaned forward to tuck the pistol back under his pillow with her right hand and to reach out for his cheek with her left. She never made it.

His strong hands shot out, one grabbing the wrist that held the hardware and the other clamping down on her throat with painful force.

"Michael," she croaked as best she could, as the thin clouds broke and the sun streamed through the window, hitting him in the face.

His cobalt blue eyes snapped open and, for a second, there was such a look of pain that it made Fiona's throat ache in a way that had nothing to do with the pressure on her windpipe. Then recognition spread across his face as morning light had a moment before.

"Fi-" he choked and the hand holding her wrist snaked up her arm and the other one holding her throat slide between her neck and her shoulder and Fiona found herself being pulled into an iron embrace, the gun slipping out of her fingers to rest where she'd been trying to lay it. Michael rolled onto his back in the middle the bed, pulling her on top of him, crushing her to his chest.

"Fi-" he choked out again. Who he was and what he was, where he'd been and what he'd done... The anger, the fear, the hatred, the disappointment, the longing, the regret, the unanswered questions all seemed to coalesce in that moment and he just shook from the weight of it. He pressed his face onto the top of her head, squeezing her, if it were possible, even tighter; as if he were trying to overcome the tremors by anchoring himself to her. Fiona felt the moisture in her hair, but couldn't be sure if it was from perspiration or something else.

"God, Fi, I'm so-" he swallowed thickly.

"I'm here," she whispered, because that's all the volume she could manage, but it was enough.

They lay there as the sun filled the loft with the morning light, Michael chanting her name at odd intervals in the barest of whispers.

Fiona just hugged him back as best as she was able with her arms going numb.

Even after all that, he still couldn't cry. So she did it for him.

That didn't count, after all. She wasn't crying. She was doing it for him. Doing just what he would have if he'd been able to. Just a drop or two more salt water than usual, indistinguishable really from the saline sweat they were already covered in.

And now she really worried.


	4. Depth Perception

**This takes place after Anson confesses to killing Frank at the hospital, but before they learn that Sam's meeting with the FBI was cancelled in ****Depth Perception****. If you like the intimate moment between Michael and Fiona, you can thank Amanda Hawthorne for talking me into putting it back in ****J**** There will be a companion piece depicting part of this from Michael's POV over in ****Bed Time Stories**** (so naturally that one will be more detailed than allowed for by the rating on this series) coming soon.**

Even though Michael was tucked under her arm, Fiona wasn't particularly comfortable.

His head was lying between her shoulder and her chest, his arm draped across her ending with his hand on her hip. Her own arm had gone numb long ago, but she wasn't going to move. He was finally sleeping quietly; no teeth grinding, no muscles twitching, no moaning, just the steady rhythm of his breathing.

She was vaguely reminded of that photo of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, except he was the one who was dressed, if you could call pyjama bottoms dressed, and she was not, only partially covered by the sheet.

When Mr. Westen had picked them up at the small private airport very late in the day, he'd looked stoic and pale. So pale, in fact, that Jesse noticed as well, asking her under his breath if her boyfriend was sick. Fiona had shrugged. As they approached him, the tension in his body had visibly lessened, but Michael could hardly be characterized as relaxed.

The younger man had reached out and gasped the other's hand in that style he favored; looking more like he was preparing to arm wrestle than shake hands. Fiona remembered smirking at that.

"_Mission accomplished, my man," Mr. Porter told him. Observing the look that had passed between the two of them, she realized that getting Anson his money wasn't the only mission parameter Jesse had been given. Irritation flared up in an instant and t__hen was gone just as quickly. Of course Michael would still be worried about her going off grid. The Caymans would have been a perfect place to do it. Hadn't she made the mistake of saying so herself before she left?_

_She put on a cautious smile. Something major was troubling him, but she had been certain that discussing it in front of Jesse was not a sound strategy. Fiona reached out and took Michael's other hand, grasping it lightly, unsure of his reaction. Feeling the shift in the mood between them, their friend immediately decided to become otherwise occupied._

_"Okay, then, baggage claim," Jesse declared, turning back towards the rented plane and then unloading the gear, which was more Fiona's than his, into the trunk of the Charger._

_"What's wrong?" she whispered._

_"Using Anson on this job..." he trailed off with a shake of his head. _

Fiona remembered how furious she had been when she'd found out that Sam had involved Anson in their bid to save Beatriz. She understood his reasoning, but to let that poisonous viper get any more into Michael's head?

She ran her free hand through his fine jet-black hair, feeling the scars underneath, and then leaned forward slightly to place a light kiss on the top of his head. She found herself wishing again that she had pulled the trigger when she had the chance.

Then she shuddered at the thought, recalling the nightmare she'd had while they were in the Caymans. She tried to pull his prone body closer to her with her unfeeling limb. There was going to be some serious "pins-and-needles" retribution when the blood flow started again.

_"Michael!" she'd screamed, loud enough to send Jesse bursting through the door of their adjoined rooms. The possibility that this little jaunt to the islands might include other dangers had caused them to leave the door between them unlocked. They weren't worried about each other._

_"Where?" He'd surveyed the situation, weapon ready, until he ascertained that she was untouched and that no one was there. She tried to get her breathing under control. This was getting old! She wasn't some child who let bad dreams upset her like this. Damn that smirking evil troll to hell, she'd thought vehemently._

_"Fi?" Jesse had drawn the one syllable out into a question as he sat down on the edge of the mattress at the foot of her bed._

_She shook her head and swallowed loudly. "Sorry, Jess." She could still see the image. She had shot Anson, blown his brains out over Jesse's very loud objections, splattering Michael with some of the blood and brain matter, only to see __him__ crumble a second later; taken out by Anson's own unseen sniper._

_She shook her head again. Mr. Porter concluded that there would be no further conversation on the topic. It was one of the things she liked about Jesse. He didn't push._

_"Okay," he drew that word out as well. "Then we're good here for tonight, yes?"_

_She nodded quickly, but he backed out of the room slowly nonetheless, never taking his eyes off her until he closed the door between them._

Fiona sighed heavily and began caressing Michael's face this time, touching each one of his scars delicately. He was the epitome of a man, her man. She couldn't imagine loving anyone else. She even loved the way his mouth hung open ever so slightly when he was truly asleep; made her want to kiss him awake every time, but she controlled herself this time.

_They had talked around what had happened the night before while sitting in the tropical breeze waiting for their sleazy banker to show up for lunch. In some ways, it was much easier to talk to Jesse about their situation. He hadn't been dealing with it as long as they all had and he didn't have the same history with Michael that she and Sam had. In some ways, it gave him a more objective view. But George had shown up before the conversation progressed much and there were probably too many people around to be discussing it openly anyway._

_It was while they were parked outside of St. Anthony's, assumedly alone, that she'd reviewed her options with him. Turning herself in was her least favorite. On one level, the thought of being detained and held captive again made her almost physically ill, but she was still willing to do it if that's what would end this. Her preference was to kill Anson and then let Pearce sort out the details. If she was going to jail, she'd much prefer it be for something she actually had done._

_Jesse was surprised that her first two options involved relying on Agent Pearce to help them sort out her incarceration problems and he said so. He'd liked Dani well enough during the extraction job they worked together, although he'd had better vacations, but he could tell she didn't have the same opinion. Fiona then admitted, somewhat begrudgingly. that while she'd initially felt a little hostile towards Michael's new agency contact, it had more to do with what the dark haired woman represented rather than her personally. Mr. Westen's coyness about her gender hadn't helped either._

_Mr. Porter had laughed, but only a little, at her pout. He was a smart man._

"_Or I could run," she concluded. "I could leave from here and—"_

"_Seriously, Fi? Bad idea."_

_Her look challenged his assumption. Jesse continued to stare out the windshield, absently tapping the automatic in his left hand against his thigh._

_"The man's a first class liar. You think Anson's going to let Mike think you're safe and in hiding? He can tell him anything—you've been nabbed, you're hurt—how's Mike gonna know the difference?"_

_He looked at her then. "You're better off staying where Mike can see you."_

_She _was certainly better off when she could see Michael, she thought, kissing him on the forehead again and continuing to sweep her fingertips over his cheekbones.

She'd missed him while they were in the Caymans; perturbed about what kind of poison Anson was pouring into his ear as they were alone together while Sam had been protecting Beatriz. Michael had sounded so strange on the phone when they'd spoken. She'd done everything she could to keep Jesse from seeing how concerned she was after that first night, although he'd probably noticed the increase in her alcohol consumption.

Damn, how she hated to worry. She'd tried to refuse; just like she had that evening on the beach. She had been determined to shake off whatever guilt and pain she had been feeling and be strong for him, as he had been for her the night before. She could see what that manipulative bastard had done to Michael by invoking his father. There was a way out of this and she was going to find it, even if it ended badly for her; and most especially if it involved Anson being on the other end of her sniper scope again. No one was going to touch Michael if she had anything say about it.

Fiona laughed at herself. As if she could ever keep Michael Westen from running headlong into danger.

"I don't mind, really," she told her sleeping lover. "What I mind is when you don't bring me along for tactical support. What I mind is when you leave me behind."

It had been on the ride to drop off Jesse that she'd learned Anson had been at the loft again. She had started to launch into a rant, but the look on Michael's face had stopped her cold. It was the same look that convinced Mr. Porter that his company could afford to go without some of its more sophisticated tracking, scanning and jamming equipment for a little while longer.

They'd arrived back at the loft late and she'd settled on the bed almost immediately; propping herself up and pulling out her laptop.

'_I think I have an idea" she announced. "But I'm going to need to talk to that li__ttle weasel."_

_Michael not quite smiled. Her dislike for Barry was almost as much personal as it was his profession, although her grudge against money launderers in general was well known. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt._

_"Sam's meeting with the deputy director should sort out our Anson problem. It should be over soon." He said it like he was trying to convince himself. Michael hadn't sounded any more certain when he'd first told them about the meeting en route to Jesse's place. He shrugged out of the garment._

_"I hope you're right. We just gave that scheming snake a lot of working capital. I want to make sure that he isn't the only one holding the aces this time."_

_He dropped the expensive apparel onto the end of the bed and Fiona's face lit up with her little Cheshire cat grin._

"_I'm such a lucky woman," she said in her thick Irish accent of another era. It was what she had said to him the first time she had seen him sans shirt. Michael chuckled softly and ducked his head a little._

_Slience settled over the loft as they held one anothers gaze for a long bittersweet moment._

"_You're beautiful, Michael," she declared suddenly with such fervent conviction that he reddened and disappeared into the back of the loft; returning a few minutes later wearing just his sleep pants. _

_She had shed her own clothing while he was gone and put on his discarded shirt. She grinned at him again as she lifted the tip of the collar to her nose and inhaled; a look of intense satisfaction spreading across her face. Her favourite person climbed onto the bed and then across it towards her. _

_After taking the laptop and setting it on the floor, Michael lay back down with a contented sound, his head in her lap. Fiona looked into his weary face with sympathy and realized this probably wouldn't end with her legs draped over his shoulders. _

"_Tough job," she declared. It wasn't a question. She wrapped his head in her arms and kissed him lightly on the forehead._

_He sighed deeply. "It was a very long couple of days."_

"_What happened with Anson?"_

_Michael closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."_

_He opened them again when he felt her stiffen and pull away, looking up at her with those cobalt blue eyes that could send her heart fluttering or shred it in an instant, as she tried to keep the hurt expression under control._

"_I didn't mean it like that," he clarified. "I mean, I don't want to talk about it right now. I just need to process—some things." He sighed again. "And I need to talk to my mom."_

_That surprised her. He hadn't mentioned Madeline once since he'd told Fiona about his mother slapping him and then throwing him out of the house. That had been an emotional conversation. "Do you want me to come with you?"_

_"Maybe... I don't know. I mean, of course, I want you..."._

_He closed his eyes again and chewed on his bottom lip. When he looked up at his wild Irish rose again, the vulnerability she saw there both startled and saddened her._

_"You know what I want, FI? I want my life back. I want the world to make sense again. I spent my whole career doing some important, something I believed in. Now, I don't even know...what I thought I knew."_

_He blinked hard. "When I jumped out of Management's helicopter, there was moment- for just a second- I didn't know which way was up and now it's-" he trailed off in a gulp. _

_It wasn't lost on her that she was what was above him at the moment. Fiona wondered if it meant the same thing to him as it did to her._

_"I want to know that the pain was worth it. That all those years, that all that hurt, meant something. That something good came out of it. Otherwise..."_

_Fiona felt her own eyes sting. She hurt for him, but also she recognized his pain. How often had she come back for another serving of heartache, trying to make all the previous pain worth it; trying to hold onto their connection despite their dysfunction as a couple?_

_"Michael, something good came out of it," she assured him, leaning down to kiss him again. Then she began working all tension away, massaging his temples, his cheekbones, behind his ears, the base of his skull, his scarred scalp, until he gave into exhaustion and she shifted him off of her lap onto the pillows. _

Ms. Glenanne hated the thought that kept reverberating through her head as she held him close now, feeling no tension in his body, but it wouldn't leave her alone. The irony of it settled on her and it was bitter indeed. All these years she'd been angry at him for every time he'd walked away from her, picked the job over her and now she was the one that needed to leave him so he could finish the job. She wondered now if this was how he'd felt before he left her back in Ireland. She'd been too wrapped up with her own pain at the time to even consider that it might have hurt him as well. It certainly didn't seem to her at the time that he could've had any emotions all to do what he did.

Tears formed in her eyes as she blinked furiously. Armand's visit had brought up all the things she had done to survive after Michael had left and she had blamed him for them for a long time. It was an even darker period of her life than after Claire. But she'd never told him about any of it until she'd let a small portion slip during her drunken confession following the dinner with Maddy and Benny.

Benny- another bad thing that brought up bad memories. While trying to console Madeline over Benny's death, she'd told Michael's mother more of the details about her near breakdown and its aftermath than she had ever told him. At first, she couldn't feel anything but confusion and the cruel cut of rejection, but it had quickly turned into rage as it had with Claire. He'd left her all alone with a job to finish and finish it she did. There wasn't enough of the Real IRA left when Fiona Glenanne was done to be a serious threat to anyone. But she'd made herself a multitude of intractable enemies in the process, some of whom had once been allies, not the least of which was Thomas O'Neil and his compatriots.

One memory bled into the next as Fiona tried shifting around to get some of the pressure off her arm without waking him. He hadn't been asleep very long the first time when it became evident that he was having another nightmare. She'd ordered him to wake up, finally shaking him to accomplish the task. She was careful though, not wanting to find herself in a choke hold again. He'd covered the arms that held him then with his own and pulled her into a tight embrace against his chest.

"_You still don't want to talk about it yet," she guessed._

_His stomach had very quietly complained in response._

_"Michael," she giggled, more to relieve the tension than anything. "I hope for your sake that's because you haven't eaten all day."_

_"I wasn't hungry," he said, rolling her onto her back and positioning himself at her side, his head propped up on one elbow, his handsome face still weary. "At least, not for yogurt." _

_Michael placed one feather light touch of his lips in the center of her forehead, which led to others to her eyelids, nose, cheeks, earlobes, chin and, inventory complete, her lips. He continued with no urgency in his soft kisses, just a slow lessening of the tension that had held him tight since Fiona had left for the Caymans. He pulled back and stroked her face with his calloused palm. _

"_I let my guard down today, Fi," the ex-spy confessed. "I did it for a friend, but now Anson's got even more—"_

"_S'okay," she murmured, pressing her fingertips to his lips. He kissed them to as he fanned her hair over the pillows and smiled down at her now. He reached out and slowly began to undo the buttons of his shirt until he had exposed her breasts. _

_Michael laid his hand onto her bare chest over her accelerating heart. _

_"This is where things make sense," he whispered. _

_He continued to unbutton the shirt until it was completely undone and then pulled it open, revealing the rest of her lithe form. He swept his hand down between her breasts to her stomach, so low it gave her shivers._

_"This is where it's safe; where I need it to be safe." _

_Their lovemaking was frequently a contest to see who could drive the other insane first. But there were times, often lately, when it was a healing of broken hearts and frayed souls. He'd let his guard down and made himself vulnerable, something he rarely did, and she was going to cede control to him, something she rarely did, for this night. So she satisfied herself with responding to his kisses and caresses, respecting his apparently deep need at this moment to be the one in charge as she discarded his shirt completely._

_As Michael settled onto her, she let herself just be happy that he was happy and let the rest go. As they both came together physically and emotionally, the fact that it could all be over tomorrow for good or ill never entered their minds._

"_Safe at home," he muttered in her ear, shuddering and holding her close._

_And then they were spent. He made a sound that spoke of his ease before he released her and slipped back into his pyjamas. She laughed lightly as he laid back down next to her, sliding into his current position. Michael was never naked for long. This and the shower were the only exceptions._

_He laughed, too, just because he could now, and draped his arm across her body, giving her hip a gentle squeeze. Then he finally closed his eyes. _

Fiona took a deep breath and released it slowly. He'd promised her that Anson couldn't take away what they had together, what they were to one another when then they were together. In peaceful moments like this, she'd believed it to be true. But there was always something, a phone call, a mission, an international group of thugs, mobsters and/or terrorists, all conspiring to pull them apart and ruin their lives.

Again.

Then the memory struck her. It was one she remembered often, either with bittersweet fondness or outright denial, depending on her situation at the time.

_Michael was above her, something she had never allowed for any length of time in those days, but this time__,__ it had been sweet. She had let him into her world and it was the first time they'd made love and not just the tangling of limbs, groping hands and questing tongues of their dating phase. He was still pressed against her, their bodies still joined together. He slowly raised his head and then himself onto his elbows; his face still a mask of post-coital bliss. When he looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes shone bright and an almost giddy smile had spread across his lips._

_"Did I make you happy, then?" She meant it as a commentary on the quality of the sex. Making love was like nothing else. She'd thought she'd known it before, but she had been so wrong._

_"Yes, love, you did," he agreed passionately in his lilting accent. "You made me happier than I've ever been in my entire life." _

_And she knew somehow that he meant it with utter sincerity, that it was not just hyperbole, and in that moment she lost her heart to Michael McBride._

Fiona felt her whole body go as numb and unfeeling as her arm. Just because she made him happy, just because he felt safe and whole when he was with her was no guarantee that he wouldn't leave to do what he thought was right, especially if leaving was his idea of keeping her safe. He'd done it in Ireland and he'd done it here in Miami. Because he'd lied to the CIA, destroyed evidence and bankrolled a criminal mastermind to keep her out of jail didn't mean he wouldn't do something eqaully extreme to make that all right again. Michael's personal happiness and well-being were things he sacrificed regularly for the benefit of others, even for people he didn't know; especially for people he didn't know.

She'd offered to give up her freedom for him, she'd offered up her life. The only thing she had left to give was her sanity. She felt the tears form as she pressed another desperate kiss to his forehead. She knew life wasn't fair. That lesson had been taught her thoroughly at a young age, but the Irish woman always held onto to the hope that somehow God in his mercy would give them a place where they could be together. They didn't even have to be at peace, as long as they were together.

But the world had had other plans. Fiona understood now why he had wanted to wait until he was sure it was over, sure it was safe to move on. She had let her guard down too and it had cost them. But she'd always acted on her heart where Michael was concerned, even if it was to her own detriment, and, sadly, sometimes to his. She was a passionate woman, not a patient one. Still, Fiona was going to do what she thought was right, just as he would; but, there were no guarantees that would mean they'd end up on the same page.

What was it the priest had said to her, "that she would swear to her own hurt for the ones she loved?" Fiona knew she had long stretch in purgatory awaiting her for the things she'd done in her life. She believed that what she'd done with her friends, for her friends, for her _best_ friend, her lover and her life, would mitigate that time in some small way when her life was over. Until then, she would do what she had to protect her loved ones.

Frank Westen was already dead and Anson Fullerton was going to be and soon.

That man was going to burn in hell for all eternity. She would see to it.

Even if she had to escort him there personally.


	5. Pilot

**A/N - Fiona got tired of waiting to make an appearance in my other fic's, so here she is on her own =) As always, thanks to the amazing Amanda for the BETA and the equally aweome Purdy's Pal for her help with the story and loads of love to all the ladies in the PCC. Reviews, alerts and fav's are ALWAYS most gratefully appreciated. **

-ooooooooo-

Fiona was already packing when she got the second phone call.

The first call had been to tell her that Thomas O'Neill was on her tail again; that he was one transatlantic flight behind her headed for New York. Somehow the bastard had already found her out. She'd meant to lay low for a bit, take some time to catch her breath and get the lay of the land. She'd been in and out of the States quite a bit this past year and she needed to re-establish some old contacts from her New York days before she could get set up in Miami.

She had also wanted to see who might be following her. Her somewhat hasty departure from home might have generated some interest, as well as that job she'd had to work in Belfast to earn her rapid passage back across the ocean.

Now she didn't have to wonder who _might be _after her anymore. The petite Irishwoman looked around her room at Howard Johnsons and cursed. She hadn't even had time to finish sorting out her things.

Her ire faded just as quickly as it had flared. She'd switched her flight at the last minute from JFK to Newark International Airport for its distance from the city center and its greater availability of international and domestic flights, knowing she would need both. That put some breathing room between herself and that radical hooligan who was currently headed to Kennedy International. She'd just have to risk changing up her ticket for the earlier departure.

She wouldn't be meeting up with her big toys until she got to Miami. While going unarmed for any length of time made her uncomfortable, Fiona Glenanne was not helpless without a firearm. She just preferred to employ its equalizing effects.

The whole thing didn't feel right; it hadn't from the start. She'd tried going home for Christmas as quietly as she could, so when she'd gotten word that she needed to go round to the bicycle shop, she'd immediately been mistrustful. Not of the old man, of course, but of what his request might bode. She'd already been set up once on that job she'd done with Michael in Berlin.

Michael.

Berlin.

She sat on the bed heavily, suddenly weary. Fiona picked up the lone reminder of him she'd brought with her. Michael had bought the jumper as a peace offering once upon a time. She fingered the dark green wool and asked herself once again what she thought she would accomplish here.

She should just let him clean up his own bloody mess, like she had in Germany. After all, he wanted to be the super spy, all James Bond with smart remarks and a new woman after every case. Why should she care to look after him, especially if he didn't want her help?

Except, this time, the bloody mess was Michael himself.

Her instincts screamed at her that the timing was all wrong, too convenient. But her heart shouted right back and told her instincts to shut it. If he might die, then he was going to hear what she had to say before he did. If it was as bad as that "maid" had said, then he wouldn't be able to run away before she got done giving him a piece of her mind.

She'd wanted to tell him off in Berlin, but there had been the small matter of the bomb that was about to go off in the hotel. After advising him as to its location, she'd told him to go disarm it his damned self. Fiona had felt a small measure of satisfaction that she'd been able to do that. In retrospect, she was also just the tiniest bit gratified that he would have a souvenir of that evening, although she hadn't intentionally tried to scar him when she'd cut him free.

She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michael had the time and the skill to do the job, but it had been so very hard to leave him to it and just walk away. The firebombing in Belfast that had almost killed him was never far from her mind; however, she had been so furious with him in that German hotel basement for yet another betrayal that her rage, and honestly her pain, had propelled her out of the room and out of his life for what she'd thought was the final time.

That is, until she strode into the bicycle shop on that cold December day a week ago.

_"Do ya remember Michael McBride?"_

Jack Tracey had a talent for understatement unmatched anywhere in the Emerald Isle.

She hadn't trusted herself to speak. She'd just hummed a positive response.

_"There's a rumor 'round thot da fellas who caused all the fuss fer ya in Berlin are about t'do the same again. Yer man's in trouble."_

What else was new? Michael courted danger like an elusive lover, like he had courted her once.

"_He's not me man," she'd protested, though it died on her lips as the elderly gentleman gazed at her in open disbelief._

_"They mean t'out him."_

_"Wot?" she stammered._

_"They're going t' expose him." _

Fiona had stared hard at the wizened face. Did he know what Michael really was, that he was an American spy and not a Provo pretending to be an ultra radical Irish ex-pat who had fled the wrath of the Real IRA and possibly the Mafia he used to work for?

_"Those friends o' his are going t'grass him up and then they're going t' hang him out to dry fer the world t' see."_

_"Where's he now?"_

_"There's no way o' knowing, but I'm told they're going to take him home, even if it's just to dump the body."_

He wasn't close to his family, that she knew, but he'd slipped once and told her he was from Miami. He didn't have to say anything about his family for her to know that he wanted no part of them or even of their memory. What kind of childhood could he have had to be that bitter so many years later? That was something she couldn't fathom. You loved your family, you hated your family, but you never abandoned your family.

Like he'd done to her.

Like they were about to do to him, apparently.

And that's what did her in. As much as she'd tried to deny it over the years, he'd taken up a place in her heart that made him family.

Truthfully, he would always be much more than that, whether he wanted her around or not.

And that meant she had to go to Miami.

Perhaps he'd rethink some of his life choices once he'd had a good dose of what it felt like to be discarded by those whom you'd trusted.

And just maybe she wanted to be there to see _that_ if nothing else.

Still, it had been with great trepidation that she'd called Armand. Their relationship had settled into business mode, with one notable exception, after she'd gone back to work for him and she was loath to disturb that. Fiona Glenanne was a rock star on the black market and in gun running circles. Her relationship with Armand had become one of mutual profit. But he had always let her know that he wanted it to return to what it had once been.

Fiona shuddered, sitting on that bed in a hotel room thousands of miles away, as she remembered the dread- something she'd not felt in a long time- that had gripped her as she waited to discover what he might ask her for in exchange for the cash, the documents and the transportation required to ultimately end up in Miami at a moment's notice. While Armand always exacted a price for his favors, sometimes it was not necessarily monetary.

On one level, she'd been relieved when he'd just asked to be a look out on a job, which turned out to be a kidnapping, considering what he could have asked for. On another, she was profoundly disturbed by his remark when she'd confronted him about it that the kidnapping was one person losing their way of life in exchange for her new way of life she would gain in the Americas.

She'd never understood why he did what he did. Most people in Armand's position traded money and favors from a business perspective. Armand was an alchemist in philosophy and practice. His family was anciently related to the Templers in France and the art of alchemy was apparently a family tradition.

He'd told her once, as they'd laid in bed afterwards, a long story about how his ancestors were one of the fortunate few of those Soldiers of God to survive the purge of King Philip IV in 1307 and how knowledge and practice of alchemy had passed down through the generations. Everything with Armand revolved around the principle of equivalent exchange.

One could hardly argue with the results; he was rich, handsome, powerful and eminently well connected. However, after tolerating a certain level of madness that came with growing up on the streets of Belfast, it had taken years for her to realize that her former lover wasn't quite entirely sane either.

She found herself questioning her own sanity at the moment. What was she doing pursuing a man who'd made love to her and then had forsaken her half a dozen times over a decade? Though, to be fair, she had left him the second and the last time. What was Michael Westen to her that she should literally risk everything to be here?

Fiona stood up then and started her packing her bags.

She had a plane to catch.

-ooooooooo-

It had taken a bit of patient surveillance, two words that never went together well in Fiona's book unless she was highly motivated, but she soon found what she was looking for at the airport.

It went without saying that, at the moment, she was intensely motivated.

The elderly British couple returning home from holiday in the US was more than happy to lend their cell phone to the poor young lass from East London who'd been mugged in the parking lot and was now without her hand bag.

Sean had been less amicable about being called after midnight on an unsecured line until he'd awoken up enough to discern that she'd done it deliberately. Her encrypted explanation of the "mugging" let her brother know who was following her and what she was doing to convince O'Neill that she'd boarded a plane back to the UK.

With any luck, the phone number would be traced back to her benefactors and linked with their flight information. Sean would handle things on his end to complete the illusion.

Fiona breathed a sigh of relief once she saw them safely aboard. Shrugging out of her jacket, she accessed the small backpack-style hand bag that had rested between her shoulder blades and went in search of a quiet corner in a coffee shop, skeptical as to whether she could round up a decent cup of tea while she waited for her delayed flight to depart.

Sean had been the most supportive of her coming here, which is to say he had the least amount of objections and he'd had the most contact with Michael McBride of all her siblings. Her closest brother had actually liked him once Sean had gotten over his whole 'that guy who's sleeping with me sister' issue. Colin and Seamus had remained neutral, not wanting to take up sides in the fight that quickly pitted their eldest brother and their mother against the youngest two.

She blew lightly on the surface of some really dreadful tea in a cardboard cup and shook her head sadly. She'd barely spoken to Liam since she'd discovered he had been the one to give Michael an hour to clear out of the country, provided he'd make no attempt to contact her; otherwise, "Mr. McBride" was on his way to an IRA interrogation room.

In fairness to her older brother, he'd had no way of knowing that she knew she was working and sleeping with an American spy; he really had been just trying to protect her. Though she might acknowledge that was the truth, it hadn't made her any more forgiving towards her sibling for his part in the whole sorry mess. She'd told Liam in no uncertain terms that _no one _was to ever know the truth. As far as _everyone else _was concerned, Michael _McBride_ was from Kilkenney.

While she'd transferred some of her fury from her lover to her brother, it was still Michael who'd left without a word. He could have lied to Liam and gotten a message to her somehow. That's what spies did, after all. He could have at least given her _the option _to say no to running away with him.

She snorted; like he would have.

She sipped her tea and grimaced; like she wouldn't have, though it would have wounded her deeply to leave her home and her family.

She closed her eyes and sighed; like this didn't hurt.

Well, one way or the other, this would be resolved. If what Jack Tracy had told her was true, then Michael was going to be stuck in one place for a while and maybe she'd have the time to work her way through his defenses and discover if Michael McBride, the man she loved, was still in there somewhere buried in the heart of Michael Westen, the spy she hated.

Ms. Glenanne thankfully ditched her drink in the nearest trash bin when her flight was called.

-ooooooooo-

Most people would consider an attempted mugging in the short term parking garage of the Miami International Airport at two o'clock in the morning a horrific experience. People from Miami would consider it inevitable. Sadly for the young man with the cheap pistol who thought he had an easy target in the small, skinny punta who was hunting for a car to steal herself, Fiona Glenanne was not most people.

She considered it an opportunity.

He'd told her to get in the car she'd just finished opening up and so she had. On other hand, he probably hadn't meant for her to climb into vehicle and leave him lying unconscious in the car park after she'd grabbed the hand holding the firearm and given him a Belfast kiss.

The last thing he remembered was the loco look in her eyes and a smile that could only accurately be described as completely predatory. Unfortunately for the young man from Hialeah, his rap sheet and his 7-18 Mafia tattoos had guaranteed that he spent the night in juvenile lockup and no one was looking for a tiny, pale redhead in a stolen car.

Fiona decided she wasn't thrilled with the .380 caliber Beretta pistol she'd ended up with as she sat in the dark brown, late model Pontiac that she'd pinched, several blocks down from the address she'd been given. The former guerilla would have preferred an automatic, but she wasn't going to be choosy. At least she wouldn't have to worry about leaving shell casings behind at the scene, should there be one.

Although appreciative of getting to practice driving on the wrong side of the road in the early morning hours under cover of darkness, she was tired when she arrived just short of her final destination and parked along the side of the street.

The hotel was an odd looking amalgam of structures that seem randomly pasted together. If she'd had the time, or the interest, puzzling over the contrast between what passed for architecture on the beach in Miami and her home would have taken days. As it was, she was only interested in analyzing the small building on the Intracoastal in terms of its tactical vulnerabilities.

Normally an action over observation type, the entire scenario had Ms. Glenanne on edge. What better way to snare her than dangling a wounded loved one as bait on unfamiliar ground?

Fiona had been wary before she ever set foot in the States and the call from the "maid" had only cemented her suspicions that this was a setup. If this dump had housekeeping, it was the owner's sister, wife, cousin, girlfriend, whoever, that was doing it; which meant they knew a lot more than they had said on the phone to Colleen Tracy.

This was the type of place that rented by the quarter hour and beaten and unconscious men got rolled and their wallets cleaned out. Making concerned courtesy calls to an emergency contact would not be on the agenda.

There were only a handful of people on the face of the earth with that number. At first, ex-IRA operative had been shocked to learn that he apparently still had the card in his wallet onto which she had half jokingly scribbled "In Case of Emergency Only" above Mrs. Jack Tracy's phone number all those years ago. The second call she'd received while still in Newark had been from Colleen, recounting the conversation she'd had with an alleged maid at a Miami hotel where Michael was supposed to be.

From one of the six disposable mobiles she'd brought with her, she called back that number and waited, wondering if anyone would answer this early, before the sun had even come up. She had queried in Spanish when a sleepy young girl from the sound of her with a thick Columbian accent had finally picked up the phone.

"Me llamo Marisol. Hay un hombre aqui, el esta muy mal herida," the girl responded.

_He's hurt very badly_, she translated in her head. But that meant at least he was alive for now.

"Los hombres que lo dejaron aqui-."

_The men that left him here- what the hell-?_

it sounded like the phone was jerked from the girl's grasp.

"Que es? Who is this?" the new voice demanded.

"Uno momento, por favor."

Ms. Glenanne pulled the phone away from her face and set it on the front seat. She didn't take her eyes off the motel as she drew in several deep breaths, calming herself and preparing to use the cover that she'd devised that would give her a reason to care, but not care too much about the injured man they had in their possession. The Irish woman had deliberately chosen something as completely foreign to her as possible, hoping it would throw whatever dogs were sniffing around off the scent.

"Who in the hell is this?" Fiona asked in her best American Deep South accent.

"My name is Maria. I am the owner of the Sea Mist Hotel here in Miami. We have a man here—"

"Yeah, yeah, Ah know all that already. Ah done talked to muh sistah-in-law. She called me up after y'all called her. Said that some maid thar done went through his stuff and got'er number. Whud the hell's muh low down, no count nephew done got his-self inta this time?"

This was not apparently what Maria had been expecting to hear.

"Well, speak up, whud is it? Booze, gamblin', dog fighting? Whud? He ain't been dealing them thar oxy-cotton pills agin, has he? Ah'll have his hide ifin' he ain't already dead when Ah git aholt of 'im."

"No," came the slow response. "Mr. Westen is alive, but he's been beaten very badly."

"Well, Ah reckon he damned sure better stay that way, you got me?. Do you have any idea of who Ah am? Does the word 'Wal-mart' mean anythin' to you, girlfriend? Ah'm aimin' to send somebody down thar t'fetch him home an' Mr. Walton's sistah's boy better be in one piece when they git thar!"

"And there is the matter of the bill for the room," Maria went on.

"Bill? Sh-it. Ah tell you whud, thar'll be hell to pay, that's whud'll get paid ifin this don' go right. Are you compren-daying me, senor-rita?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, bout time. Ah'm a'sendin' Gabriella after him. Ah reckon she oughta be thar 'bout an hour or so from whud she said. Now, don't you go letting her looks fool you neither. She'll mess you up quicker'n a mad 'coon and hurt you worse than a moonshine hangover. She hablas, too, so don' be trying to pull none o' that bullshit neither, ya'hear?

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Don' call us agin and don' let me hear tell of any trouble or y'all'll wish you's never been born."

She hung up the phone and slipped out of the car. The waterway wasn't far and she had a good throwing arm. By the time the small splash of the mobile hitting the water echoed back, she was already settled in for her surveillance.

Now she would wait and see who if anyone materialized.

-ooooooooo-

The sun was just starting to fill the room when Fiona used her lock picks and let herself into Room 7 of the Sea Mist Hotel. It was a corner room on the upper floor. The early morning light had just started to filter in through the only double paned window in the entire building. The room was rectangular with two single beds set in the far corner and plain wooden shelves too sparse to be considered night stands by each one.

Near the balcony door that was covered in a venetian blind sat a cream colored, embroidered chair that had obviously been stolen from another dining room set. Opposite the entry door was the opening that led to the bathroom, more light streaming in from the rather-large-for-a-hotel-bathroom window. Lots of exits, she nodded approvingly, but also lots of points of entry to watch. There was large TV on a dresser opposite the beds and a small empty closet.

Her boot heels clicked on the white tile floor, so she rose up on her toes as she slipped into the room. She forced herself to momentarily ignore the figure huddled on the first bed while she checked the room. No one present, no obvious bugs, no booby traps, but she would take or make her phone calls outside as she currently wasn't equipped to do a more thorough sweep.

She crept back to the main window and peeked out; no one yet. So she was apparently the first one on scene, except for whoever had unceremoniously dumped off her former lover in this "vacation paradise."

Fiona straightened, tucked the Beretta into the back waistband of her jeans and took a deep breath. Michael was curled up on his side, facing away from her. His jacket was tossed onto the adjacent bed; his shoes were next to it.

She moved quietly around to the other side of the bed and couldn't stop the gasp that escaped when she caught her first good look at his face.

A long gash, caked with dried blood, decorated his swollen cheek and his lidded eyes were sunken. How many times had she caressed that scar to the right of his eye while he was asleep? The new mark was almost precisely over the old one. She squatted down level with the bed and reached out a trembling hand to lay it alongside his wounded face.

" Michael," she whispered his name like a prayer.

Fiona swallowed thickly and braced herself against the swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. All the harsh words and cruel comments she'd intended to say to him had evaporated. Her acrimony and her wrath were pummeled under a wave of protectiveness that crashed over her. She may have wanted to beat him like that herself for what he had done, but _no one else_ was allowed to do that to him. In that moment, she transferred her animosity to those who had dared to damage him.

The lithe woman stood over him then and eased the limp form onto his back. She was more disturbed than she cared to admit that this action brought no response from him. Reaching up, she carefully eased open one of his eyelids. The pupil was dilated and didn't react to the extra illumination.

_Concussion or drugs_, she thought. _Or both_.

She ran her hands carefully through his mussed black hair, probing gingerly and finding several raised knots on his skull. Fiona paused in her inventory to bring a warm, wet cloth out of the bathroom and sponge the blood off his face. His face was puffy, but bones underneath were not broken. She didn't like his color as the light continued to fill the small room and the temperature started to rise.

His lover slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt, memories of all the times she'd ripped them from his body, succumbing to the urgency of touching him, drifted through her mind. The last time she'd had to undress such an unresponsive man was the night Sean had welcomed him into their secret circle with a celebratory drink of Pointin—well, more like two or three.

She stifled another gasp as she pulled the shirt tails free and the garment fell open. His entire left side was a mass of bruises. There were smaller abrasions on his right shoulder and arm. She touched his chest and his stomach with sure hands, looking for signs of internal bleeding and was relieved to find none. Fiona winced as he finally whimpered softly when she pressed against his battered side and apparently broken ribs. She whispered an apology and then kissed him lightly on the forehead.

As small as she was, Ms. Glenanne was strong enough to hold him up with one arm while stripping away his shirt. It joined his jacket on the other bed. Fiona debated whether to relieve him of his pants, but decided against it. This whole situation could change any second for the worst. She freed his belt and tossed it aside as well.

Michael's lower limbs were black-and-blue as far up as his knee caps, his left leg worse than his right. She smoothed the pant legs back into place. It was a reasonable assumption his thighs were in the same condition. She loosened the top of his trousers and probed his lower abdomen, her hands lingering on his hip bones as she decided what to do next. She smirked as she contemplated the times she'd roused him from sleep that had started this way, but he was far too injured to withstand the exercise at the moment and there were far too many words yet unsaid between them.

"Ah, Michael, wot have ya gotten yerself inta this time?"

She leaned over and kissed him gently. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped him as her lips left his. Fiona smiled in response, stroking the uninjured side of his face delicately, and touched her forehead against his for a brief moment. She let herself hope against hope that _her_ Michael was still in there somewhere. That was why she was here. She refastened his trousers loosely, hoping to make him a little more comfortable.

As she righted herself, that's when she saw them, the needle marks on his arm. So, he had been sedated judging from his unresponsiveness and Michael didn't look that badly dehydrated, although he probably should have been. The urge to hit something or preferably somebody rose up inexorably.

The former guerilla stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips and plotted her next move. He was going to need fluids and so was she, as well as something to eat at some point. Plus, she'd been up for two days straight and it looked like a third was in the offing. And there was the small matter of "Gabriella" going through the front door of the hotel and intimidating the owner. She hated to leave him, but she had work to do.

That same predatory smile from earlier in the morning blossomed across her face. This could be fun.

-ooooooooo-

Fiona was pleased with the results of her shopping expedition. She'd snared another handgun, a Glock this time, and a knife as well as the supplies she'd gone out for. Absently rubbing her forehead, she decided that two Belfast kisses in one day were enough. The intimidation of Maria had gone well and she was sure she would have no trouble from the woman. "Gabriella" would make a point to interrogate Marisol privately, but for now, she was tired and hungry. Her body was still on GMT. Although it was not quite eleven in Miami, it was tea time as far as her stomach was concerned.

Ms. Glenanne returned to the room to find Michael curled up on his side again. She noted that his color was better. Taking a quick inventory of the room, it appeared nothing had been disturbed, including him, while she'd been gone. The last few days weighed her down suddenly and all she wanted to do was sleep. It would be better for her to sleep in the daylight, better visibility and less opportunity for ones enemies.

As much as she would have liked to crawl up next to him, the single bed was plainly too small for the both of them. It was barely big enough to contain his large frame. After a moment, she reached a solution.

She propped the embroidered chair under the door knob of the main entrance and then moved the little shelf that served as a nightstand between the two beds in front of the balcony door. That done, she pushed the one that was against the wall together with the one on which Michael lay. Taking a bottle of water and the two firearms with her, she scooted across the mattress on her knees.

After depositing the guns under her pillow, she reached out and cradled his head in her palm. She shook him ever so gently and called his name. After a few tries, she got a guttural acknowledgement.

Lifting the bottle to his dried lips with her other hand, his Irish lover urged him to drink and was rewarded with a small slip. Satisfied, she eased him back onto his pillow and then capped the water. As she lay down facing him, Fiona took one of his large, calloused hands into hers, kissing the bruised knuckles.

"Fi?" the sound was barely audible.

"Yes, Michael?"

He made a tired exhalation, but never opened his eyes.

"Dreaming?" he whispered.

"Do ya dream o'me often, Michael?" she smiled in response, but it was tinged with sadness.

"Always," he sighed before slipping back into unconsciousness.

And then she allowed herself to do the same.

-ooooooooo-

So, TBC or The End?


	6. Pilot  Part 2

****A/N – Much thanks for all the positive reviews, alerts and fav's for this story. As always, thanks to amazing Amanda and equally awesome Purdy's Pal and Daisy Day for reading through parts of this.****

-ooooooooo-

The denial, while low and quiet, might as well have been screamed for the effect it had on her.

"No…"

She had rolled on her side away from him, ever the restless sleeper. She hadn't shared a bed with anyone on a regular basis since they had last lain together, night after blissful night, a decade ago back in Dublin. Her eyes snapped open and wheeled about the room as her hand shot instinctively under her pillow for a firearm.

"No...Don'..." The sound was plaintive and forlorn.

She was on her knees on the bed, gun drawn, searching for any threat. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her breath thundered in her ears.

"Don'… hang up..."

As Fiona quickly determined that no one was in the room besides the two of them, she felt the urge to smack the wounded man lying next to her, his outstretched hand reaching towards her.

"Hung up...on me…."

She growled through her teeth in exasperation and lowered her weapon, dropping it to the mattress.

"Michael," she huffed, as she tried to get her heart rate under control.

"...Fi?"

Then her breathing stopped and she thought she'd gone daft as she looked down at him.

"Fi," he begged and there was a hint of moisture around the eyelids that were clamped tight in pain. "Fi…I…"

"Shh, Michael, tis alright now," she cooed.

Michael stilled as soon as her hand cupped his cheek just below the abrasions.

"...Sorry," he whispered miserably, turning his face ever so slightly into her hand.

That apology could have covered any one of a multitude of sins.

"So am I," Fiona agreed sadly. "Sleep, Michael. Get better."

As she lowered her hand, his came in contact with her knee.

"Don'… go."

She felt tears sting her own eyes now, knowing that those words- while apparently heartfelt and sincerely meant- would never have slipped from his lips if he were fully conscious.

"I'm nae tha one thot goes," she reminded him bleakly; but he had already drifted away into sleep.

She exhaled, rubbed her eyes with her fists and resisted the urge to flop back down in a heap. The petite woman was so tired. She calculated that she'd slept not more than a few hours and she still hadn't eaten. Still, food wasn't something that interested her at the moment.

Fiona eased back down on her side, taking in the familiar features now relaxing into rest once again. How often had she lain beside him and watched him sleep? More often than not now- now that she knew he probably wouldn't be there when she awoke.

The hand that had clasped her knee had slipped away as she lay back down. He reached slowly across the cheap comforter until he came in contact with her wrist and then encircled her delicate but deadly hand with his larger one. She knew what he wanted, what he didn't have the strength to do at that moment as hurt as he was.

She shuffled closer, not quite touching him, close enough to feel his warmth, but not really putting any of her weight on his battered body; entwining their fingers and laying their enjoined hands over her heart.

"Miss you…" he murmured so lightly she wasn't sure if she really heard it.

She didn't just miss him, she missed __them__; working with him, hanging out with him, flirting with him, cleaning their weapons together, working out together, sparring together, sharing a meal with him, sharing her bed with him. It wasn't just the sex, incredible as it was; it was the companionship she missed. They had fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Fiona blew lightly, puffing the wayward hair out of her eyes. She tried to contain her emotions as she stared at the man who had never stopped haunting her dreams either.

How many times in a decade had they suddenly been thrown together or done a job together, then been together and afterwards...? Dublin, Istanbul, Cairo, Milan, all the same, even in Berlin, although she'd caught up with him again later that time and she'd been the one to leave at the end.

Tripoli had been an exception because it wasn't a job and she'd knocked him out before __she'd__ left the room. But since that had been the first time she'd seen him after Dublin, he was just damned lucky she didn't blow his head off with that gun instead of pistol whipping him with it.

_God, how he frustrates me!_

Ms. Glenanne had a big family that she loved dearly, but for the most part outside of Sean, and maybe Colin and Seamus to a lesser degree, they didn't truly know __her__. She had precious few real friends, friends that knew almost everything about her, the bad more so than the good. No one else ever seemed to understand her like he had, though he certainly didn't know all her secrets either.

Fiona sighed deeply. Michael McBride had been her kind of guy, through and through. Michael Westen, on the other hand... she knew almost nothing about him.

Now, she would take the opportunity to find out about Mr. Westen.

His Irish lover carefully raised herself up on one elbow, making sure not to disturb him, and gazed down fondly. It was so strange thinking about him that way; two men apparently sharing one countenance, one body. She smirked as she reached out and cradled his face once again. While he might bury what he felt for her, and she was sure he felt __something__deep under that carefully cultivated facade, she knew all too well how to relate to his body and, hopefully, his heart, too.

The former IRA operative was certain that with some regularly applied prodding she would find what she was looking for. She __could be__patient, if she was highly motivated.

It went without saying that, at the moment, she was intensely motivated.

-ooooooooo-

She had returned to the room to its original state. It wouldn't do to have someone come in and discover that she cared for the man in her custody more than a body guard in the service of a rich family should.

After she'd coaxed Michael into taking some more water and consumed the food she'd brought for herself, she'd settled onto the other bed and had gone through his stuff.

Fiona had found his plane ticket from Nigeria, a small knife and his sunglasses in his jacket.

That had been an interesting conversation with the Nigerian airline. The language barrier as well as their subterfuge made it difficult to get anything useful. She wasn't used to working so hard to talk to someone. As a graduate of Queens College Belfast with a degree in languages, Fiona could usually speak some form, or even something close the form, of the language of most people she interacted with.

Her father had taught her Latin and some Greek along with her native Gaelic and English as a child. Patrick Glenanne had been studying to be priest at the behest of __his__ mother until he'd met __her__ mother on a blind date his friends had arranged for him one night back in 1955. The rest, as they say, was history. Mr. Glenanne became chemistry major the next day.

The youngest of six children at that point, all boys, Fiona had been a Daddy's Girl if ever there was one. She had been at his side, no matter what he was doing; even if it was making explosives for the Cause. Of course, had she known, her mother would have put a stop to that. As it was, it had been __their__ little secret.

Her conversation with Marisol had gone much easier and was much more informative. Her facility with Spanish, even if it was the continental version and not the local dialects, was going to come in __very__ handy here in Miami.

Learning Latin had made learning the other romance languages a breeze. Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese, they all had the same base mixed with whatever native tribes were occupying the country when the Romans swept through. German had been a horror, as Mark Twain so accurately described a century ago, but like any challenge life presented her, the young Miss Glenanne met it head on, guns blazing, so to speak. Of course, when Claire was killed, there were guns blazing of a different sort in her life.

She'd learned to passably speak Arabic, in its various forms, and Turkish as a matter of self defense in her other line of work. One couldn't be too careful when running guns or other explosive commodities in the Middle East.

Through her conversation with the shy young woman from Colombia, she'd learned that the men who had dropped Michael off in this charming little venue in the middle of night had been rather large fellows wearing suits and scowls. Marisol and her mother were instructed as surely as the Nigerian airline had been that they would do as they were told. In their case that consisted of making a concerned phone call and seeing who came round.

While she was down in the lobby, she had also noticed two men in the adjacent parking lot sitting in a gray four-door land yacht, the type favored by the FBI for long term surveillance. So, the Fed's had finally shown up. So, Michael was truly now a persona non grata with his own government.

In his wallet, Fiona had discovered the "In Case of Emergency Only" card with Colleen Tracy's phone number on it. She had turned it over in her fingers for a long moment, still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he'd kept it all this time.

There was also surprisingly still some cash, some cryptically scribbled notes in Michael's sparse handwriting, an old ID and a tracker, which was now taking a tour of the Miami Metro Dade County sewer system.

The former guerilla had examined the laminated card with eyes that had seen thousands of forged identity documents. It appeared to be a genuine albeit old military ID. The picture of Michael was that of a defiant young man in his late teens. She had grinned at the stubborn visage glaring out at her. What a handful he must have been for his poor mother.

Then her smile widened into that full blown look of mischievous delight that would have had Michael shivering with either dread or desire had he been awake to see it. Fiona reached under the bed and grabbed her hand bag, pulling out one of the mobiles and dialing 411. She headed out onto the balcony. If she was very lucky, his mother still lived at the address on that card.

-ooooooooo-

Ms. Glenanne sat in the embroidered chair, slowly flipping the military ID between the fingers of her right hand with the dexterity that had served her so well on the battlefield and in the bedroom.

She'd had a pleasant exchange with Marcus Dwyer immediately after speaking to Mrs. Westen. Her big toys were safely on their way and her New York connection had arranged for them to be transported through an eccentric gun runner friend of his here in Miami, who was obstensively delighted to assist Marcus in this endeavor.

It was only going to cost her an introduction "some day soon," a lunch at the man's house he was apparently insisting upon, including mango smoothies which were allegedly required now that she was here in Miami. She was sure it would also include some "friends and family discounts" on their future business dealings. But she would leave her introduction to the South Florida gunrunning community for another day.

Now that her armory was on its way, the next order of business would be scouting secure locations to store her hardware and of course she needed a place to stay as well. If she'd had any illusions, no matter how slight, about renewing her living arrangements with Michael, they had been thoroughly dashed following her conversation with his mother.

The petite woman watching over Madeline's son had a lovely chat with her, most enlightening indeed. Fiona glared at her former lover who was resting off of his injured side as usual, curled away from her with his backside turned towards her, as her pique was slowly bubbling up into ire.

She'd been infuriated with Liam, but she'd still spoken him. It might have been nothing more than an exchange of pleasantries here and there, ignoring the two kiloton bomb in the room as it were, but she'd still spoken to him nonetheless.

Michael, on the other hand, hadn't spoken to his mum in almost a decade. Not a single phone call, just the odd telegram here and there on her birthdays. His mother was definitely needy, almost clingy, and possibly a hypochondriac, but the woman was also outspoken, passionate and downright manipulative when it came to getting what she wanted.

That made Fiona smile; they had that much in common.

They certainly had one other thing in common; they'd both been abandoned by this man sleeping in front of her that they cared about more than they cared to sometimes. She couldn't imagine what the woman had done to him that would cause Michael to cut her out of his life completely, but she could certainly fix that.

"His girlfriend" had promised to pass along his new phone number as soon as she had it. It shouldn't take too much doing to get it now that he didn't have a government shield around him. She'd been in the IRA for fourteen years; she wasn't a complete twit.

Fiona Glenanne was a good judge of character, even her brothers were forced to admit it. She could assess a person, sometimes at a glance, and tell what was in their heart. In her line of work, it was not only a valuable skill; it was often a matter of life and death. People had betrayed her before, but for the most part, she'd known before it actually happened.

It was one of the reasons she'd been so hurt when she'd discovered Michael had lied to her. That had been another scar she'd given him. She'd launched a beer bottle at him which had struck him solidly in the chest and improbably exploded when it hit him. He was lucky she hadn't broken it over his head, though it made enough of a mess as it was while he was desperately trying to explain himself.

The deception had been made doubly bitter by the feeling that she __should__ have known better and, worse yet, that she __still__ inexplicably trusted him, despite the obvious evidence that she had been wrong to do so; then and now.

Perhaps this was just what Michael needed. He'd always used his job as an excuse to run away. Now that he was no longer employed, perhaps if he stayed in one place long enough, he could maintain some normal relationships. Things could have worked out for them if he hadn't run off.

She contemplated his slumbering form for a few moments more. Once he woke up, the time for tender caresses and whispered words would certainly be over for now. She remembered what he'd said to her in Berlin that night as he'd held her tightly in his arms lying together in the afterglow of their lovemaking. He'd as good as told her that he wanted to be with her when all this was over.

She'd thought he meant their involvement with the job in Berlin. He'd apparently meant someday when his involvement with __his__ __job__ with the CIA was over and it seemed that he wasn't planning on retiring any time soon.

She'd been so incensed when she realized that it was going to be "hasta la vista, baby" again as soon as he was freed and the bomb was defused that she'd scored his bicep deeply while cutting loose the ropes that had bound him and then she had plunged the large knife into the wall mere inches from his head.

She'd cursed him thoroughly enough to make her ancestors proud as he'd struggled to his feet, his expression one of confusion. Then she'd slapped him as hard as she could and told him where the device was and where he could go before she'd help him disarm it. As his features had changed from wincing in pain to utter shock, she'd turned and stormed out of the hotel basement. By the time he had finished the task, his spurned lover was long gone.

Fiona blew out a breath and tried to shake off the fierce resentment that was welling up in her again.

Well, now his job __was__ over now. It was time to see if he'd meant anything he'd ever said to her or ever promised her. Somehow, though, she was betting he wouldn't waste two words on "Hello, Fiona," never mind "I'm sorry," before making an exit, once he was wide awake.

"Well, Mr. Westen, ya con't run," she informed him, the smile growing broader as she was already warming to the thrill of the chase. "And ya con't hide from me, not ina place this tiny."

This was definitely going to be fun. She twirled the card faster as her amusement overcame her aggravation.

If she understood what Jack Tracy had told her properly, it would only be a matter of time before he was looking for her help. She had more resources than he did at the moment, but she knew him well enough that he would have to be on his own for a while before he came round.

Still, while Michael might be thick-headed, she was __Irish__.

If he wanted to be a hard ass, then . . .

Fiona scooted down in the chair and reached out to put her boot where it would do the most good. She had a lot to do here in Miami in order to settle in. It was time to get this show on the road.


	7. Last Rites

_A/N: Although these stories usually encompass one thinking about the other while they sleep, obviously they are not sleeping together right now. So, here is a short little vignette about what Fiona is thinking the night before she sees Michael in prison, wondering if he's sleeping. There will be a companion piece over in While Fiona Sleeps. Thank you to Purdy's Pal for reading through this and to DaisyDay, Amanda & CJ for being the lovely people that they are._

_-oooooooo-_

_Where is Michael sleeping tonight?_

She'd asked herself that often over the years. It was a game she played with herself when she couldn't sleep or when she was fighting off weariness and needed to stay alert. Fiona had found over the years that by varying the line of thought in answer to that question, she could lull herself into slumber or keep herself riding an adrenaline rush of anger, depending on what she needed most at that moment.

Except now she focused her rage on those who had separated her from Michael instead of directing her ire at her wayward lover.

_Is he sleeping at all?_

But as the exhausted Irish woman lay on the hard cot in Allarod Federal Prison, listening intently to the sounds around her, peering frequently through the bars situated by her head, she wasn't asking the question in order to do one or other. The mere fact that she was trapped here in this cage with someone intent on killing her would have been enough to keep her awake on its own and the promise of seeing Michael again, if only in her sleep, was always sufficient to lure her into sleeping just enough to remain alert and functional.

_Is he sleeping at all or is he as jittery as I am?_

Leaving her head near the bars would seem like a tactical error, but it gave her a wider field of vision to observe what was potentially coming at her and it made her feel less hedged in and freer to maneuver She'd always considered the number of exits in any room, any building she went into. At night now, there was only one way in or out. During the day, all the exits were guarded.

Somehow she kept herself from screaming by staying in motion, by lying in wait, by staying paranoid and by waiting to see him again, if only in her dreams. But since she would _actually_ be seeing Michael tomorrow, the question echoed in her head of its own volition.

_Where is Michael sleeping tonight? Is he sleeping at all?_

Long before her stay in the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons, Fiona Glenanne had been a notoriously light sleeper and thinking about the fact that she would _actually_ see him tomorrow put her in mind of one of things she _had _slept through that she'd rather not have.

_Was it ever as hard for you to leave me behind as it was for me to leave you?_

That night he'd crept out of their bed, their apartment and her life, he'd done what he had that evening with a calculated purpose; he'd confessed as much to her that night on the balcony after Armand's visit.

But she didn't need his admission to know that he'd plied her with dinner, with wine, with passionate love making and with little something more, all in a bid to make sure she slept through the night and it had worked. She was able to put that one together all on her own years ago. She'd cursed him for it and then she'd railed at herself for it.

_After all those years spent years sleeping on the edge and the one time it mattered most…._

The petite redhead heard voices whispering in another place, another part of the prison. It sounded like the guards instead of her fellow inmates. She strained to hear what they were saying, but it was too faint, just like she had strained to hear his footfalls night after night, after he left her, but they never came.

She hadn't been able to sleep for weeks afterwards. She never let herself think about him kindly during the day. She needed the fury to keep her going in her fight with the resurrected remnants of the radical groups. But at night, that was different story. If she needed to stay awake, she stayed enraged, but if she needed to sleep, well….That's when she'd invented this little game.

_Where was Michael sleeping tonight? Was he sleeping at all? Was he comfortable, sick, hurt? _

_Was he alone? Did he miss her? Where in the world was he? What was he doing tonight?_

The Irish woman had spent too many years with enemies awaiting a moment of weakness to ever sleep very deeply. She'd often teased Michael about how soundly he slept for being a spy. Fiona had only recently figured out that _when_ he slept like that, it was because he was with her, finally feeling secure enough to allow it.

_Will I ever sleep securely again after this?_

_Will Michael have to pry a gun out of my hand night after night like I did for him? _

_Or will I shoot someone by mistake like I did in Belfast?_

Fiona Glenanne had become a light sleeper at a very young age. It all started with brothers who tormented the girl who had gotten her own room whilst they were now crammed two to a bed in one room. Since they weren't sleeping well, they'd seen to it that neither would she when there were no parents awake to intervene.

It continued in earnest after that dark night when her Da and her oldest brothers were dragged away. Instead of lying awake in fear of her brothers' retribution, she trembled in her bed at the thought of soldiers taking her away.

Then she decided she'd live in fear no more and she slept, though it was ever so lightly. Fiona also learned to take lots of quick naps to sustain her awareness level. Her mischievous grin wasn't the only thing about her that could accurately be portrayed as cat-like.

She'd been accused her of toying with her food literally and metaphorically by a number of people over the years as well as being able to drop off to sleep at a moment's notice and spring alert at the slightest misplaced sound. Michael had laughed and said she was practically purring on more than one occasion as she'd made a particularly satisfying purchase of weaponry or footwear or as she had burrowed into his side after loving him in every way she knew how.

_Will I be able to let go of Michael long enough to pick up a gun once I'm free? I've held them both at the same time in my sleep before… _

She was falling back into her old patterns, her old habits so easily. It was like being back in Ireland, life in the IRA sleeping with one eye open and life after Michael sleeping not at all. Only the need to rest to stay alert and the promise of seeing him in her dreams enticed her to sleep back then and so it was now. She'd said as much to him in her letter. She had tried to keep the letter light, let her humor such that it was show, but it kept straying into the truth.

_Are you sleeping Michael or are you reading my letters? Have you gotten my letter? Do you know how much I miss you? I never said 'I love you' because I was afraid, afraid to scare you off, afraid of what it would feel like when you couldn't say it back to me. _

_But I had to let you know, so I wrote it. I will write it every time I put pen to paper for you. I will say it when I see you, whether you can say it or not _

But she'd told her Da she loved him, over and over all her young life, and he'd still left her behind for the Cause. She'd begged him not to go that night. She never told her brothers that she loved them. That was too girly. Sean forever razzed her that she couldn't be a Glenanne because she was girl, as if the two were mutually exclusive.

She'd told her mother and Claire that she loved them, but for the most part it was to say "I love you, too' in response to them. They were such a pair once her little sister had come along. No, she was a Daddy's girl and she'd already been chasing after her brothers all her life, so why change? She could indulge in being a girl without being girly.

_Me family learnt not to startle me when I wa' sleepin', even Claire learnt the hard way. _

After that blackest of nights when unwanted hands and the things attached to them had had their way with her, she'd never slept without a gun under her pillow or a knife within reach. It terrified Claire, but she was young and innocent and didn't know the things that Fiona knew, hadn't seen the things her sister had seen, hadn't felt the things her sibling had felt and hadn't had the things done to her that she had. While she thanked God that her baby sister didn't know, it still made her short tempered with Claire's naiveté.

_So tha last thing I tol' me sister wa' thot she wa' a spoilt little child and a great cry baby. Me baby sister died in tha street thinkin' I hated her….Michael, I will tell you I love you every time I see you whether you ever say it or not. _

Once upon a time, it was her brothers that she kept one eye open watching for and then it had become only in her brothers' company that she could allow herself to sleep. Once Sean had been the bane of her existence and then he had become her closest companion, though he never stopped razzing her, just the tone had changed. Some things change, but some don't. People don't change just cuz you want them to, but sometimes they do, all on their own.

_How many times did I hit _you_ when you woke me up in Dublin and then in Miami? You finally learned, didn't you?_

Once upon a time, she had been in love with a man who'd said his name was Michael McBride and now she was in jail for a man named Michael Westen, something she'd sworn she'd die before she'd do when she was in the IRA. Once she had never gone unarmed, but now she'd had to fashion clubs out of magazines and salt water to defend herself. Once upon a time, she'd have never surrendered; she'd have gone down guns blazing, until she had allowed herself to be disarmed for his sake, until she allowed them to lock her up in this place. all for him, all for the man that never stopped haunting her dreams. Some things never change, but some things do.

_Ya could nae stand it thot I could always sneak up on ya, but ya finally learnt not t'wake me, did ya not? _

Images of a naked Michael sprawled on the floor, rubbing his jaw and staring at her incredulously blossomed in her brain. They'd only been living together a very short time when he'd apparently decided he couldn't wait for her to wake up to get her attentions again. She knew in her heart that he was good at heart. She'd always been an good judge of character, but her body had been trained and it reacted of its own accord as it had been conditioned.

_Mmmm, thot wa' quite the apology I had t'give ya._

Fiona let herself slip into the remembrance, a sweet smile playing across her lips for the first time in so long that it felt strange to her facial muscles. Afterwards, as they had lain in one another's arms, neither one wanting or daring to sleep, she'd told just a snippet or two about why she'd reacted the way she had, about her brothers, about the policemen who came in the night, about things she'd done in the IRA, though never about _that night_. She'd never told anyone about that except her father's sister, Aunt Claire. What she had said was enough to get the man killed.

They had shared such a long history together and yet they'd talked so little about their past, shared so little of their dark secrets with each other even now. They did so many things to each other, hurt each other so many times because of things other people had done to them and now they were apart because they'd hurt each other over things other people had done again. Would they ever get it right? Would their love for each other ever be enough?

_Where are you sleeping tonight, Michael? _

_Are you in our bed? Are you holding the pillows and still trying to catch just a bit of the scent? _

_It's faded already, believe me, I know. But I bet you tell yourself you can still smell it. _

_Do you pick my clothes stare at them, touch them and try to imagine me in them? _

_Are you running your hands over my things and thinking about when I put them there?_

_Are you touching the things I gave you and thinking about what I said then?_

_Are you touching the things you have me and thinking about what you said?_

_Are you thinking about every goodbye we never said to each other all those years?_

_Because I did those things _every time_ you left me. Are you doing that now?_

_You don't have to wonder where I am and when you'll ever see me again. At least you know where I am and when you'll see me. But after tomorrow, you will know that I am neither free nor safe, not even in these walls, especially not in these walls. _

_Will you cry for me like I cried for you? Are you thinking about those three words we've never managed to say to one another? Well, I'm going to fix tomorrow, no matter what else is said._

_Where are you sleeping tonight, Michael? Are you sleeping at all? _


	8. Game Change

**Author's Notes and Disclaimers: So, Burn Notice, I still don't owe it and it looks like I never will. Neither do I own "Back Again by the incredible Chris Daughtry**

_Set during those three weeks Fiona spent in a holding cell as just a bit of angst to ramp up the tension for tonight's Season 7 premiere. Love to all the Burners wherever you are and most especially to the wonderful women of Twitter and the fabulous frauleins of Facebook._

_Much love to the PCC as always and deepest gratitude to everyone that reads and reviews._

()()()()

_Somewhere in the shadow world of spies and secret prisons…._

She's lying on her side, staring at his face while Michael McBride sleeps, the face of the first man that ever made love to her in her twenty seven years of life, the firelight casting shadows and patterns along the planes of his strong cheekbones and his full mouth. There have been men before him, she's had sex, but not like this…no, it's never been like this….

There's little distance between them and she revels in the warmth of his embrace, the touch of his skin as they lie together naked on and under old woolen blankets at the farmhouse, her first home. It's dirty, run down, abandoned, freezing cold in the Irish winter. But she gazes at his face, the way those beautiful lips rest slightly parted and how his long black eyelashes almost brush his cheeks, and she is filled with a glow that has nothing to do with the body heat, the blankets or the roaring fire contained in the ancient hearth by their feet.

_No, he's not here anymore. He lied. He wasn't Michael McBride, he was a damned spy. _

She's lying on her side, staring at his face while Michael Westen sleeps, gazing at the face of the man she thought she knew. He has Michael McBride's face, there's some scruff on his cheeks and chin that he'll shave off tomorrow, but that doesn't matter. It's his face, but it's not somehow. She looks upon his visage in slumber in the early morning rays of summer sunshine that's sneaking through the cheap fabric thrown over the windows of their run down Dublin flat, shifting on the worn out mattress that pokes her side while she tries to figure what is different. She's watched this man sleep for months, hardly able to believe he was real. But he wasn't real; he wasn't an Irishman from Kilkenny like he said he was. How had she been able to forgive him for lying to her, using her like that? And yet she had.

_~The truth behind everything, behind every one lies somewhere.~_

She's lying on her side, staring at the wreck of the bed where she and Michael used to sleep, her body screaming at her. She's beyond drunk, she's bruised, she's battered and she did it to herself. She's destroyed their little Dublin flat and taken a knife to the mattress and she's lying in a tangle of sheets amongst the wanton destruction of their former home.

_He said if they could just show the CIA how well they worked together, they were going to be together. He was going to take her with him when he left Ireland. But he was gone._

She's lying on her side, staring at his face while Michael Westen, burned spy, sleeps. Lying on those cheap mattresses of the beds she had pushed together in Room Seven of the Sea Mist Hotel, she looks at the bruises and cuts on his forehead and cheekbones, the abrasions on his large, calloused hand that is cradled between her smaller ones. She holds it to her lips and kisses the bruised knuckles. Maybe this time, _this time,_ things can work out for them. He's not with the CIA anymore and she left the army three years ago. They're free.

_~I'm taking it slowly and seems like you don't care about little things that mean so much.~ _

She's lying on her side on the mattress in the middle of the cavernous loft he calls home, not looking at Michael while he's pretending to sleep. They each know the other is awake, but they're going to lie there, not looking at each other because neither knows what to say. They've made love again for the first time since she arrived in Miami, many, many months ago. Michael had thought they were "reconnecting" then, like they had here and there around the world since their parting in Ireland. But she wanted more. She wanted _them_.

_I just want to know where I stand. I've been here a while. It's been fun. Is this going anywhere?_

She's lying on her side watching while Michael sleeps fitfully in the safe house Nate has found for them. She can hear his family in the other rooms. No one is sleeping well. Yes, they have to keep his mom and Nate safe. Yes, they have to rescue Sam. But, going with the people who tried to kill him, who burned him? It was almost as foolish as his quest to get back into the CIA. She wants to touch him, but she's afraid to wake him. She's seen that look before, in their final days together in Ireland. She didn't know at the time….

_~You leave me alone while you're losing touch, and everywhere I go it isn't clear.~_

She's lying on her side, staring at his face while Michael sleeps, but there's another face she's seeing in her mind. It's the tortured expression he wore when he crossed the room, soaked to the bone, making puddles with every foot stop on that hard wooden floor, until he was standing in from of her. His eyes were full of unspoken grief that couldn't seem to make way for the relief that she was alive and well and in his arms again.

_Michael? You didn't think that I…._

She's lying on her side, staring at the wall of her bedroom while Michael sleeps in his holding cell in Dade County lockup, wishing he was there with her. She takes grim satisfaction that Carla is sleeping with the fishes, but she feels the same sorrow washing through her again as when he told her she wasn't invited Cuba, the same dread as she wonders if he will actually be released and Management will keep his promise to let him be. He's free now, free of the government, free of the organization, free despite what Sam said.

_~I can't breathe. Because I hate it when, the fear sets in.  
>And I wonder when, you'll be back again.~<em>

She's lying on her side, staring at the wall of her bedroom, wishing she'd never come to Miami while Michael sleeps, assuming he's asleep, back in the loft alone. Fine, if his career was that damned important to him, then fine. She _claimed_ to care about him, so she'd _damned well wants for him_ what he wants for himself. She said she'd help him and so she will, right up until it is time to say goodbye. She doesn't give a damn if they have one.

_~It's like we said a while ago, yeah.  
>You switch the shoes you still won't change you~<br>_

She's lying on her other side on the beach, wet, sandy, choking on vile canal water, her arm is on fire, while Michael's wearing that same look, the same one he had at the loft when he thought she'd died in the fire. _Is that what it takes to get through to you, Michael? _

_Don't. We're so not good at this._

She's lying on her side, staring at his face while Michael sleeps, relishing in the soft, contented expression gracing his features. There's little distance between them and she revels in the warmth of his embrace, the touch of his skin as they lie together naked under very soft cotton sheets on a plush mattress. Not another wasted hotel room this time. She can't believe that he booked it for them a day early, can't contain the happiness that wants to bust out of her as she lies there sore, but utterly sated, feeling the glow spread all over.

_~Pretend that you know me, but you're so unaware~.  
><em>

She's lying on her side, fingers skimming the cold sheets as she nuzzles the pillow, no trace of his scent left, staring at what she considers _his_ side of the bed while she wonders where Michael is sleeping tonight instead of at the loft. She has nowhere else she wants to sleep tonight. Her condo like her Irish homeland, are gone. She's lost them both and she's lost him _again._ He promised her and Sam, _no more Mr. Lone Wolf_, but he had still run off after Simon, them vanishing from the FBI's custody. She lied for him, covered up for him, almost gotten herself killed for him. She had promised to die with him, that when the time came, they would do it together. And still when it was all over, he went away with the CIA again.

_~And I hate it when, the fear sets in. And I wonder when, you'll be back again.~  
><em>

She's lying on her side, staring into those beautiful blue orbs, because while they both should be sleeping, the intoxication of their love making just won't stop pumping adrenaline and dopamine into their brains. This bed wasn't just his bed any longer, it was their bed. He had asked her to move in. She can't stop the smile that's blossoming over her face. It's finally over. They can move on. He's back in the CIA, but Max she can live with, as long as she gets to live with Michael, too. She pulls him in for another deep, passionate kiss.

_~I remember when the fall began And I wonder if you'll be the same again.~  
><em>

She's lying on her side in Allarod Federal Penitentiary, staring at the bars, while wondering where Michael is sleeping tonight. It's her favorite way to kill time while trying not to get killed, though Nicole almost succeeded, the sisters' almost succeeded. Would Michael be able to get her out of here before Anson's next hired assassin succeeded in doing the job?

_~We've all been down this road before, I give it all, you wanted more.  
>I've only got myself to blame.~<br>_

She's lying on her side in some nameless CIA holding cell, staring at the blank wall, while wondering where Michael is sleeping tonight. They've gone from searching for the people who burned him to finding the bastards responsible. He's gone from wanting to get back in with the CIA to being hunted by and ultimately captured by the CIA. They went from bringing Nate's killer to justice to working with Nate's killer to bring Tom Card to justice to fleeing from justice because Michael had put a bullet between the dirty bastard's eyes.

_I promised Sam that I would make this right. _

She's lying on her side in that nameless CIA holding cell, trying to be happy for clean clothes of her own and a private shower, something she had learned to appreciate deeply since being on the run and being in Allarod. She's lying there praying that the fact they surrendered peacefully and cooperated fully will finally result in their release, their freedom, trying not to acknowledge that what makes it right for Sam might not make it right for her.

_~And I hate it when, the fear sets in. And I wonder when you'll be back again...~  
><em>

She's lying on her side in that nameless CIA holding cell, remembering all those times and all those places that she was there, lying next to him holding, watching him, loving him while he slept. She's lying on her side, recalling all those times that she wished she knew where and how he was while Michael slept, while sometimes trying to tell herself that she really didn't care about the answer, but she knew deep down in her heart that she did.

And she's lying on her side, lying to herself that this is going to end the way she wants it to. Because in the pit of her stomach, she knows, but she still holds on to hope, to a promise….

_You and me working together. Just us, the way it used to be. At the end of the day, this right here is how it should be. _

While an utterly exhausted Michael finally sleeps, after being interrogated by his own people, after spending days and weeks on end trying to make it right, like he promised Sam, and wondering what she will say about to what he had to do to protect them all.

_~I remember when the fall began. And I wonder if you'll feel the same again.~  
><em>


	9. Psychological Warfare

**Author's Note: **

_Thank you to all the wonderful Burners who kept clamouring for more BN FF, especially the Seventh Brat, and to the lovely ladies of the PCC for all your support. Special shout out to all the groovy gals at #BNClub (aka #BurnerClub aka #burnnoticeclub – it is only right that we have aliases ~ LOL) Join us Thursdays at 9 PM EDT as we work our way through Season 3. BN4EVER._

_This tragic tale is set during the aftermath of Michael's interrogation by James in Episode 7.07 __Psychological Warfare__ and was inspired by Jesse's remark "Fi tried talking to him. He took one look at her…started crying….couldn't stop…" And so our story commences…_

**_()()()()()()()()_**

The prone figure before her heaved a massive shuddering sigh that sounded of soul numbing, bone penetrating weariness, tinged with enough hopelessness to almost break her resolve, but she stopped herself from touching him. He continued to tremble for a moment before settling down into a deep rhythm of breathing that said he was asleep and the influence of the drugs and the nightmares they caused had lessened.

She stopped herself because she wasn't sure who she would be comforting, him or herself, and she wasn't sure it would be a comfort for either of them if she touched him now.

And she _hated_ this whole thing, _absolutely despised_ how the world had gotten between them and set them on different paths _again_. She'd been determined to end it his time. _She couldn't do it anymore_.

That was why the Irishwoman had finally allowed Carlos Cruz into her life. He was affectionate, steady, loyal to a fault, so much so that he sometimes reminded her of her mother's Belgium shepherds. She knew where he stood and what he wanted. There were no surprises, there were no hidden agendas, no master plan, no greater conspiracy to fight, no CIA to separate them, dictate their lives, get between them in any way.

That is, until Agent Strong had showed up in her living room, though in truth it had started when she'd been staring around the parking lot of that abandoned building, looking for the shooter. There was _no way_ Sam had made that shot. She knew sniper rifles and she had heard the report. Someone else hidden somewhere else had taken out whoever had them all pinned behind that car in that empty lot where they'd been ambushed. _Rico was going to pay dearly for that when she had time_.

Her eyes settled once again over the sleeping figure of Michael Westen. Now she knew for certain whom it had been, although she had suspected as much at the time. She reached a hand out to rub his back, only to drop it again without touching him. She was afraid to disturb him now that he was finally resting quietly, or so it seemed. There was a time when she wouldn't have doubted whether her touch would comfort him, but now….

Now, after what had happened earlier today….

Oh, hell, after what had gone down this entire fucking last year….

_If only she had known then what she knew now… or would it have made her even angrier to know that it had all been for show? That the black suit and the tie and the agents taking his orders were all part of the ruse to convince his friends that he was back in the CIA by choice and not with a proverbial gun to his head, to allow them to walk free, thinking they were free to move on because he had moved on instead them being the leverage that was continually held over his head. _

_Maybe she was supposed to read between the lines and realize that, understand that he was being forced to do what he was doing to save them yet again. _

_Except that was what she had always subconsciously expected him to do, that he would go back to the Agency, that despite his words and promises, the siren song of the job would call him away. After three weeks locked up in a CIA holding cell fearing the worst, she followed right along, buying the lie he'd fed her, letting her self-fulfilling prophecy become her heart breaking reality._

She glared at his back, which still shuddered occasionally as he breathed. He had taken it all on himself. He had pushed them all away in another misguided attempt to save them. Again…

_Why didn't he understand that he was better off with them than without them?_

_He just didn't,_ she concluded, and no amount of asking why was going to change that.

"_Sometimes it's not easy knowing how far to go to build trust. The DR, Cuba, here… There are things I've done, choices I've had to make." He wasn't looking her as he spoke. Part of her already knew what was coming as she looked away and sighed…_

"_Last night, Sonya and I …" Her head snapped up and her jaw dropped ever so slightly as she looked him in the face, but he was still staring at the dock as he breathed out her name, "Fi…"_

"_Why are you telling me this, Michael?"_

"_I've asked so much of you already. I couldn't ask for you to be part of this operation without knowing everything."_

"_Are you worried about the operation?" she asked, voice breaking. "Or are you asking whether it's okay for you to sleep with the enemy? She is still the enemy, right?" What was he really trying to tell her? That he'd moved on, too? That he was as over her as she was over him, which was really not at all._

"_The mission hasn't changed."_

"_Really?" _

_How stupid was it to be angry? Of course he would do whatever it took to complete the mission, including sleeping with Sonya, because everyone's life was on the line._

"_Yes, the meeting with the head of her organization will happen soon."_

"_You're playing with fire… But you know that."_

Of course he knew that, they both did, because _she_ had been the enemy he'd slept with, she had been the asset he fallen in… she stopped herself short. _Had he fallen in love with her?_ On the one hand, it was ridiculous that she even questioned whether or not he had loved her. On the other hand, his words, his actions, his choices all fed into that nagging raging doubt that burned inside of her that she was never more than an asset, just one of Michael's top assets in Miami, like Strong had said, just part of his cover, that Michael Westen, the man, was a cover for Michael Westen, the spy.

Fiona had walked away from that dock, gotten in her bright red sports car and drove around in a huge hurry with no particular place to go. His bounty hunting partner had abandoned Carlos in the middle of a job, albeit it an easy one. She hadn't even made an excuse. She'd told him straight up it was for the CIA mission that was supposed to set her free of the Agency once and for all. His look had said it all. And for all Agent Strong having her arrested had been a massive pain in her backside, at least she no longer had to sneak around, calling Madeline for back up whenever _she_ would have to go do what needed to be done.

So, she could quit lying to her new lover. That was one thing off of her list of things she'd hated when Michael had done them to her that she now had suddenly found herself doing to the new man in her life. Carlos had been so patient with her. Fiona had expected him to get pissed off and leave more than once. He really did deserve better than get caught in the crossfire of her ruined relationship with the man she'd loved with her whole being.

_Who was she kidding?_ She was _never_ going to stop loving Michael. Campbell had called her out on it years ago. How long before Carlos finally called her out, despite his assurances the contrary?

_"Until I deal with my past, I can't be with you. And I really want to be with you."_

She had meant it, too. She wanted to be with someone who wanted to be with her. The former PIRA operative had been as honest with Mr. Cruz as she ever was with anyone about her past relationship with the elusive ex-spy who had gone back out into the cold.

The Irishwoman had held her breath when Carlos had told her he didn't understand. But when he said he trusted her and that he would be there for her while she did what she had to do, Fiona had almost cried. _Just because she loved Michael didn't mean she was supposed to spend the rest of her life chasing after a man who might have loved her, but was never going to commit to being with her. She didn't _deserve_ to be treated like that…_

And then came the memory, unbidden and unwanted.

_Have you ever thought you deserve better than this?_

_Michael, all I wanted was to be by your side. I'm not leaving it again._

_Dammit, _she snarled at that couple in the past, sitting there on the beach watching the sunrise another lifetime ago. _He left __my__ side, he walked away __from me__. He left __me__ behind __again__!_

She sighed heavily and shuffled just a little closer. There was still a light sheen of sweat on his skin, though the muscles beneath it had finally relaxed. Somewhere outside the house, she heard Maddie playing with her grandson. It had been nearly impossible to keep the toddler away from Michael.

She finally gave in and laid a light hand over his shoulder blade. _Why? Why did it have to be so damned complicated? Why did she feel like a whiny heroine in a cheap romance? Had she, like Scarlett O'Hara, fallen in love with the pretty suit of clothes named Michael McBride and missed who the man really was? Was she in love with someone who didn't exist? And if he didn't exist, who was it that had saved her from nearly dying more than once since he'd come back into her life after almost a year of stone cold silence?_

_And how had she thanked him? _She had run past Michael into the arms of the man who slept in her bed now, the one who had been there for her_ this past year._

Fiona leaned forward and rested her forehead on the top of his shoulder as he slept on and cried quietly, just a small moment of grief… for him, for her, for all the things that never were.

And as the tears trickled down her face, dripping slowly off of her nose and her chin, she tried not to remember what had happened as they'd raced to his mother's house. _Even looking through the binoculars, sitting helplessly on a boat out in the bay, she could tell that Michael had been through hell and back. Somehow, he had looked worse than when she'd found him unconscious in that hotel room all those years ago and that had truly scared her._ She sniffled and tried to halt the waterworks.

"Dammit, Michael…." she whispered brokenly as the memory of their days of Belfast past hit her hard and reminded her that he'd made a liar out of her again_. Had she ever been able to stop caring…?_

"_I told ya befer, McBride, I don' worry… Am only har cuz I dinnae want the bastids ta succeed in killin' everyone in tha club."_

_She'd been terrified when he'd emerged looking and smelling of the inferno he'd escaped. He'd manage to relocate the fire bomb, which had been __put in place by one of the RIRA's foot soldiers, to a part of the nightclub that wouldn't compromise the structural integrity because he'd been unable to disarm it himself. Because it was a tricky trigger, a two man job, and she hadn't been there to help him…because they weren't working together at the time… cuz she'd found out thot he wa' a fecking spy… because he'd gone off on his own to save the day anyway, his survival be damned…_

The parallels of then and now, which had echoed and repeated over the decades of their on-again, off-again relationship, the neon red warning signs that flashed at her over and over again, they mocked her now as she tried not to let the sobs become too loud or allow them to make her quiver.

_Once they collected Michael's prone body from the docks he had unceremoniously been dumped upon, she hadn't left his side, following close as they carried his limp form from the car into his mother's house. Charlie's eyes went wide as saucers at his uncle's appearance. After they'd deposited the unconscious spy in the bathroom, Madeline handed her grandson off to Mr. Jesse and Sam headed out in search of the mansion and whatever intel he could gather. _

_It was all Fiona could do to keep control as she took in the multitude of needle marks on his arms and his dehydrated, dilapidated condition. The older woman held her tongue as well, afraid to wake the dark haired man between them as they removed the sweat and grime of his ordeal from his tortured body as quickly and efficiently as they could._

_The former guerrilla was torn been raging at the terrorists who had him and being grateful he hadn't been interrogated by someone more like her brother as she helped dress him in clean clothes. They left him in his old room to sleep off whatever heavy sedative he'd been given. Charlie tried to sneak in a few times to visit his uncle while he slept, but was never as skilled as the operatives watching the boy. Taking turns entertaining Nate's son kept them occupied while they waited._

Fiona shifted back away from her former lover, breaking contact with his skin as she wrapped her arms around herself, steeling herself for the worst memories that she couldn't stop from coming.

_If felt like days, but in truth it had only been hours. The redhead had been alternating between checking on the insensate form of Mr Westen and staring out the front windows awaiting an ex-SEAL to come back with some word of what he had discovered when she heard stirring in the room and had gone quickly to the back of the house, Jesse hot on her heels._

"_Michael," she breathed his name, dropping to her knees at his side and coming level with his red rimmed, sunken orbs. The younger man backed up, giving her room to operate as she tried to calm the delirious, hyperventilating spy. She reached out and laid a hand that trembled slightly alongside his wiry cheek. "Michael, how badly are you hurt? What did they do to you?"_

"_Fi…?" The battered man froze, staring at her wide-eyed, almost in disbelief. His arm shook as he tried to raise himself up on his elbow and his hand as well as he started to reach towards her, his eyes beginning to water. "How are you here…?"_

_And then it was like he was staring through her. Suddenly, the puffy red lids squeezed shut as the tears began cascading down his tormented face and Michael Westen began to cry, gut wrenching, heart breaking sobs tore from his lips and he jerked away from her as though he had been burned, collapsing back onto his old bed._

_Fiona grasped him by the shoulders, trying to embrace his quaking frame, but the moment her hands touched his limbs, those blood shot blue eyes had snapped open and then he'd wailed even louder, squirming away from her hold and rolling onto his side, curling into a ball whilst turning his back to her._

__The next thing Fiona knew, she was being grabbed from behind _and lifted off her feet, Mr. Porter's powerful muscles moved her as though she was the limp rag doll she felt like. Madeline swooped in to take her place, wrapping her arms around her son's shaking shoulders, his mother pressing kisses into his sweat dampened hair, trying to settle him down, but to no avail. _

_The petite woman had started to fight to be freed, but only for a second. _That she was somehow the cause of _Michael weeping inconsolably made her absolutely ill. She had been grateful when Jesse had deposited her in the bathroom. A quick stare to see if she was alright and he had closed the door behind him and then Ms. Glenanne had slowly melted onto the floor._

_Fiona had composed herself while, through the thin wooden door, she could hear Maddie promising her boy that it was safe to sleep. That his father was gone on a trucking run, delivering a load of televisions to California and wouldn't be back for two weeks. That Mrs. Watkins would be bringing his favorite meal to the house with her when she got off work at the diner in an hour or so. That they would all eat together this evening before Miz W took Ricky and Andre home for the night. That he could take a nap now and rest._

Later, she had come out and helped the older woman set up the makeshift bed in the living room that he was sleeping upon now. It seemed that being in his old room had been causing Michael even more nightmares. The Irishwoman had taken Charlie outside to play before lunch. Eventually, his mom had gotten some water and canned chicken soup into Michael and the exhausted man was finally resting, though far from comfortably.

Fiona raised her head and scrubbed at her moisture-filled eyes with the heels of her hands. As she struggled for control, she missed the tiny form quietly padding up beside her until the touch of a small hand on her thigh startled her out of her reverie.

"Is you hurt?" the little boy asked quietly.

"No, sweetheart," she lied smoothly.

"But you crying," he stated the obvious.

"Well, maybe I am a little hurt," she admitted, giving him a watery smile. She glanced over at Michael, seeing with relief that he had apparently continue to slumber through her own momentary breakdown. _She couldn't keep to doing this…This had to come to an end… It just had to…_

"You fall down?"

"Yes, sweetie," she agreed with a weak laugh. "I fell. I fell really hard."

"Did Unca Mike fall too?" his nephew asked quietly, looking surreptitiously at the motionless man's back.

"Yes, yes, he did." Fiona managed to keep her voice from breaking. "He fell very hard, too."

Charlie crept over on tiptoes and placed a tiny kiss between his uncle's shoulder blades before backing away to return to her side.

"I kiss it better."

"Yes," she sniffed. "You did a good job."

The brown haired child, who already looked too much his father, pulled on her arm until the Irishwoman lowered her head to his level. He placed a small buss on her wet cheek as well.

"You stop crying now," he commanded as his grandmother came into the room to collect him.

"I'll be okay. Thank you, Charlie."

"You see Mr. Carlos," the youngster instructed. "He kiss it more better."

"Ok," she replied, barely above a whisper. She stared ahead while Michael slept, trying not to think, not to feel, not to _worry... _Madeline's hand came to rest lightly upon her slumped shoulder.

_She had tried so hard for so long, almost a year now, to stay angry at the man she'd lost her heart to ages ago, to cover that heart in a protective shield of blazing fury in order to be able to move on, to function without him in her life fuelled by her wrath, while he was presumably doing the same._

"Go ahead, honey. Go home and get cleaned up. Go see Carlos. He's going to be worried about you. Jesse will keep an eye on us while you're gone."

_Loving that woman's son truly had been trench warfare as she'd warned her all those years ago and she'd steeled herself for battle and then… she'd let him slip under her defenses every damned time._

She knew what she should do. She should do what the man's own mother had said and go home to her Latin lover, fall in his arms and not return for the rest of the night, the week, the month, ever...

_And she knew damned well she wasn't going to be able to do that._


End file.
